In The Name Of Peace
by TheoreticallyEva
Summary: Seven years after the Promised Day, the new democracy wants to put Roy on trial for the Ishbal War crimes. If he’s not forgiven, he faces execution. Details inside. - Ch. 7: Of the Power of Media. Enter Roy's team--rocking as usual--and a letterpress.
1. Of Gallows Awaiting

**AUTHOR'S NOTE IS IMPORTANT THIS TIME, THANKS.**

**Please excuse the long-windedness, but there's a lot to explain. If you don't care, then just skip to the actual story part, but I suggest that you care.**

**Hello, everyone! This lovely fan fic is the brainchild of the illustrious Fudfoodle's and my boundless and shameless enthusiasm for all things awesome (which includes FMA, of course), as well as our dazzling intelligence. We have everything all planned out, so don't worry, we know where we're going and what we're doing here. ;) For your information, the story includes legal processes, semi-organized interest groups, political intrigue, a few philosophical entanglements, sweet love, **_**and**_** action, as well as appearances from **_**most**_** of the original cast. Oh, yeah. **

**Also, we included all information about the FMA world and characters revealed to us up through Chapter 102. Anything that happens thereafter will be disregarded, so you may consider this story a bit AU if necessary. But we'll make up for it later. :3**

**Basically, the way this works is that I'm doing the writing, but Fudfoodle is posting comic versions of each chapter with her account on deviantART. You can find it at fudfoodle . deviantart . com. She is amazing and fabulous, and if you don't check her out, I'll turn you into an octopus. Really. Anyway, we agreed to post the contents of the first chapter together at about the same time, so she's either already posted them or is just about to do so. QUICKLY!! Make a new tab and put her deviantART address into the URL bar! Go! MAKE A TAB LIKE THE WIIIIIIND!!**

**Pairings include RoyxRiza, EdxWinry (sorry, darling RoyxEd fans; we're sure you're very nice people, but you make less than no (as in **_**negative**_**) sense to us), FueryxOC, and just a dash of AlxMei. There are also adorable little Mustang and Elric kidlins running about as an added bonus. :3 It's rated T for the occasional cuss word and/or slightly adult topic of conversation. But there are no lemons. None. Nope. Plenty of love, but no lemons. Lemons give us sour faces. Ha. Metaphors.**

**Fudfoodle and I hereby disclaim everything that Arakawa has copyrighted. This obviously excludes our wonderful OC's and story line. Please do not steal them from us. My soul does not like thieves. Sometimes it eats them.**

**Reviews are, needless to say, dearly loved and appreciated, and constructive criticism is always accepted graciously and gratefully, as both Fudfoodle and I are aspiring to be masters of the art of story-telling. Well-built (I repeat, for this is a key word—"WELL-BUILT") differences of opinion on the characters and/or social and political mechanics of the FMA world are also quite welcome. Flames, on the other hand, will merely be sighed at pityingly. Depending on the severity of the flames, my response may be to simply inform you that I will be praying for some kind of happiness to enter your life and distract you from the inner darkness you feel you must unleash upon poor, helpless little Fudfoodle and me. For we are **_**definitely**_** helpless and devoid of self-confidence of any sort.**

**Aaaand with further sarcastic and verbose ado….**

* * *

**In The Name Of Peace**

"Look at me.

"Look at what I've become.

"I was at the top of the world. I had it at my feet.

"Now I'm here. Just waiting. Plenty of time and space to go insane. But I'm not there yet. I'm still full of dreams. Wonderful dreams. They're all that carry me through now.

"You're scared, aren't you?

"Scared of me? Or scared of the d-word?

"How ironic.

"People have always been obsessed with living forever. Some people spend their whole lives trying to find a way to immortality. Others give up far sooner and decide instead that they shall live forever through their art, or their deeds, or simply by passing on their names, or even through the memories of others who will, laughably, die one day as well. They say this is the only true way to live forever. But they are wrong. They are pathetic mongrels scrounging for some sort of hope that doesn't exist, some sort of haughty, pseudo-philosophical truth that makes them feel better about eventually having to spiral into oblivion.

"Fools. All of them. Jealous, ignorant fools.

"The only way to live forever, my friends, is to _be alive forever_."

* * *

"You're looking a little dead this morning," Riza teased lightly in a voice not quite accustomed to being activated again after hours of sleep, passing a hand over Roy's tousled hair as he inhaled sharply, brought his head up from the kitchen table, blinked slowly and heavily in her direction, despite being unable to actually see her.

"Good morning to you, too, dear," he mumbled, then cleared his throat, trying to rid himself of its light coat of disuse. The black, long-haired, floppy-eared adult dog resting passively next to his feet raised his head at the sound of his master's voice, awaiting an order.

"Morning," Riza returned. "Good morning, Wataru," she said again, smirking at the affectionate licking she received in gratitude for running her fingers through the hair on the top of the black Labrador's head. Soon, she set to work spreading strawberry jam on a slice of bread. "You didn't sleep," she stated after a moment, glancing at Roy when he shook his head and massaged his temples. "Why didn't you wake me?" Her husband declined to answer, instead fingering the newspaper next to him. Noticing this, Riza leaned over his shoulder to check its date, glass of milk in hand. "You got the paper? It arrived early today," she murmured thoughtfully, sipping her milk as she scanned the headlines.

"I heard it hit the front door, so I got up to get it," Roy said, absent-mindedly brushing his hand over the oak walking stick leaning against the edge of the table, its metal end clinking faintly when it was jostled on the floor tiles.

Continuing to skim the articles in the paper, Riza spoke again, keeping her voice level, though Roy heard the fierce frown in her tone. "And it seems that stubborn imbecile of a principal still refuses to allow Ishbalan children into his school."

"Is he?" Roy grunted. He kept a straight face as he listened to her walk past him to set her glass—now empty of milk—in the sink and begin preparing a kettle for tea. Only he knew her well enough to detect the slightly firmer, louder way that she moved objects around, picturing the way he knew she was jamming her palm into her hip as she one-handedly ignited the stove, a gesture with which he had become familiar while he still had his eyesight and slacked off on his paperwork as a colonel. She was upset. Very upset. And it was not even seven o'clock yet. "What was his reasoning?" he queried.

Riza took a moment to breathe deeply. "Apparently, he said, 'I couldn't fight in Ishbal because of my illness at the time of the war, but at least I can show my patriotism now.' Looks like a lot of people agree with him, but a lot of other people are really angry about it. A fight almost broke out at the school."

They were still for several minutes, no sounds save for Roy's unconscious tapping of his stick against the table's edge, or when Wataru licked at his lips, bored. They heard the water in the kettle begin to steam and bubble, but there was no whistling yet. At last, Riza began to busy herself washing dishes.

"Didn't we talk about sending the boys to that school?" she asked.

"Yep," her husband replied.

"Are we still going to?"

Roy paused, his mind feeling as blankly dark as his sight. "Well, it _is_ very distinguished."

"Hm," Riza nodded slowly. As she set aside the dish from the sink after forcing every drop of grease her elbow had into scrubbing the tomato sauce from it, the kettle began to whistle, and she hurriedly switched off the stove. Drying her hands and grabbing a mug, she inquired after Roy's interest in a cup of his own, but he shook his head. Moments later, she had seated herself across the table from her husband, waiting for the tea to cool enough that she could taste it without burning her tongue. Roy listened to the rustling of the newspaper's pages as she pulled it toward her and continued her study of it.

"Apparently, they're organizing a country-wide vote to put us on trial, too," she suddenly said, face and tone implying that the matter was no more significant than needing to buy more soap for the bath the next time they were out.

"Oh?" Roy merely raised an eyebrow in response.

"For the Ishbal war crimes," Riza elaborated. "Voting is tomorrow." She kept speeding through the paragraphs of the article and nodded modestly. "The legislature really put this together quickly for only being active for a year. I'm impressed."

"Me, too," Roy agreed.

"Well, it's thanks to you," Riza said, making sure he knew she was smiling.

Roy shrugged lightly. "It really is a good thing Olivier is the Chancellor. Being her consultant may be important, but it's not like it's a position Olivier couldn't easily refill or that anyone would really miss if she decided to forego it. The country will hardly notice."

Riza nodded slowly. "Well, I don't know that _all_ of that is true." She paused to take a few thoughtful gulps. "But it's about time, really. It's been seven years since the Promised Day. Seems like it's been ages."

Roy smirked. "Today, somehow, it feels like it wasn't very long ago at all. But a lot has happened since then." He blinked and suddenly broke into a smirk. "We have company coming, Riza."

A yawning voice that somehow managed to be authoritative despite its youthful pitch broke through the quiet conversation from the entrance to the kitchen. "Daddy, Zach wants you to help him go to the bathroom."

Roy smiled in the direction of their two boys, imagining them the way Riza always described them to him. Their six-year-old, Jadon, was nearly the spitting image of his father, besides having inherited Riza's eye color. He rubbed his eyes while patiently enduring the clinginess of the four-year-old, Zach, whose cerulean eyes appealed earnestly to his father from behind dark blond bangs that Riza swore she had to trim twice a month. It was she who answered the boys' implied question, however, rather than Roy. "Zach can go by himself, dear."

"But I want Daddy," Zach whimpered.

Roy adjusted his position in his seat so he could hold his arms out to the boy. Zach toddled across the floor and fell into them sleepily, and Roy squeezed him close.

"I'd love to help, Zach," he said, "but you heard your mother. You've got to be able to do things on your own. We can't always be around for you."

By this time, Jadon had scampered over, expecting his turn for a hug. Roy did not disappoint, scooping both boys into his lap and grunting affectionately as he pressed them as hard as he could against his chest. Riza smiled and waited for her sons to wriggle away to greet her; when they did, she kissed each of their cheeks.

"Please, Mom, can Dad help me? I don't want to go by myself," Zach asked, eyes pleading.

"Thank you for being polite," Riza said softly yet firmly, "but if you_ can_ go by yourself, then you should. Hurry."

Urged by a gentle push, Zach exited the kitchen with a pouting face. Jadon left his mother's side to reach for the bread on the counter, snatch up a slice, and munch.

"Can we have pancakes?" he asked, licking up a chunk of half-chewed bread when it dribbled on his lower lip.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Jadon," Riza sighed. "I don't want to have to keep telling you."

Jadon took the time to loudly gulp down his food before speaking again. "Sorry, Mama. Can we have pancakes?"

"Your mother and I will have to leave for work soon, which means we have to take you to Mrs. Hughes's house even sooner," Roy smiled warmly, though Jadon's shoulders drooped. "Sorry. But maybe we can have pancakes for dinner instead."

The six-year-old's face screwed up skeptically. "Breakfast for dinner?"

"Why not?" Roy shrugged and grinned, while Riza smirked to herself.

"Okay!" Jadon stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth and clapped his hands together. At the distressed and unintelligible sentence Zach suddenly tried to shout from the direction of the bathroom, he ran out of the kitchen. "I'll go help Zach!"

The room fell quiet again for a moment. "At least we know they'll be all right," Riza said.

* * *

"Are you all right, sir?"

The voice was that of his secretary, whom he had been informed possessed a fountain of blond curls on her head and dark forest green eyes, on top of her reputation as an especially efficient and trustworthy office worker. Roy suddenly realized he had been staring in her direction for the past several moments after hearing her read the name of the sender of the large manila envelope she had reported had been delivered to his desk before his arrival. It must have been rather unsettling, being under the intensely contemplative gaze of eyes as blank as his. Putting on an apologetic smile, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and steepling his fingers. "Pardon my distraction, Holly. Is there anything else?"

"Well, there are a few other documents here," Holly replied. Roy heard her sheaf through several papers, but he paid the most attention to the deeper sound of the manila envelope when she set it aside; he would take it later to have Riza read it. "These are from your wife, covering security details for the commemoration conference you wanted to call on the upcoming anniversary of the Promised Day battle."

Roy raised his eyebrows. "She got started early."

"Perhaps being in love with the Chancellor's personal consultant is what makes her such a good head of security," Holly grinned.

"Don't you have anyone else to make fun of?" Roy smirked. "Your fiancé, perhaps? Doesn't he usually come to distract you from your job right about now?"

Holly narrowed her eyes at him, though there was no real heat in her glare. "May I be dismissed, sir?"

"Dismissed," Roy waved his hand at her with a chuckle. He heard her hand fall on the knob of the door leading to his office and found himself calling, "But Holly!" He paused, making sure she was acknowledging him before continuing. "Please send for my wife to come see me as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir," Holly answered. Once she had closed the office door behind her, Roy's momentary sense of humor rained away to be replaced by…. placidity. His stomach and lungs felt light, like they had shrunk somehow, but there was no dread, no sickness. He shook his head at himself. "All this time waiting, and now it's here, and I feel like this," he mumbled.

He fingered the tray on the left side of his desk he knew was filled with at least half a dozen tapes as yet unheard by him. Law proposals, trade agreements, civil disputes—the members of the Chancellor's Cabinet were proficient at keeping him busy. Not that he usually minded; exhausting as it may be that so many prominent experts on every facet of politics and economy imaginable could deliver eloquent opinions on the country's affairs but remain unable to reconcile their votes for solutions, the Chief Advisor would have little to do without their contentions to solve. Besides, it was interesting, having so much accumulative information at his disposal keeping his mind alert and sharp. For a disabled man with as tumultuous a past as his, Roy felt glad for his success and relished still being of use to the country he loved.

Still, at that moment, he found his hand slowly slide away from his trays to idly support his cheek.

It seemed hours before he sensed Holly approaching his office door, Riza trailing behind. Wataru's collar license tinkled as he raised his head and perked his ears. Holly rapped on the door before opening it with a quick and light, "Your wife here to see you, sir."

"Thank you, Holly," Roy replied before she closed the door again, and he listened to Riza's confident strides across the carpet, picturing the focused gaze he kept imprinted in his memory. He set his hand on the manila envelope, just where he knew Holly had set it earlier. "She said it's from William Heralds."

"Head of the legislature?" Riza said. She studied the seal solemnly. "Are you ready for me to read it?" she asked. At his nod, she picked up the envelope and neatly tore it open, unfolding the letter inside. " 'To the most honorable Chief Advisor,'" she began. " 'Your presence is requested this afternoon of October 18th, 1922, at three hours after noon, in the Legislative Council Amphitheatre. Apologies for the short notice; however, your cooperation and timeliness would be appreciated, as the matter which we are required to discuss with you is of an urgent nature. The representatives of Amestris hope you are doing well. Please do not reply.'"

A silence. Neither moved.

"Is that all?" Roy finally asked.

After a long pause, Riza said, "Would you like me to come with you?"

Roy wished he could see her eyes as he tried to give her a small smile. "If you'd like."

* * *

"You're early, sir," a guard at the meeting room door commented expressionlessly. He glanced around, searching for bodyguards and finding none but an excitedly panting Wataru and a taciturn Riza. "And you came alone?"

"I figured I'd better not keep them waiting," Roy answered smoothly. He then grasped his wife's hand. "And right now, I only need Riza." She squeezed, and he squeezed back. "Are they ready for me?"

"They're ending a discussion of a bill as we speak," the other guard replied as he scribbled on a piece of paper. "We will announce your arrival in a moment." With that, he opened the door silently and slipped the paper through the crack to someone who took it from him slowly so as not to disturb the commanding voice from somewhere inside. The guard deftly closed the door and nodded politely at Roy. "Please take a seat as you wait."

Roy took the guard's suggestion and sat on the cushioned bench to one side of the doors, Riza seating herself next to him while keeping his fingers intertwined with hers, running her thumb gently over his skin. They had no idea how many minutes passed. As far as they were concerned, time had ceased moving and would only resume once they called Roy inside. Two tremors went through his leg, but they were fleeting, and other than that, he did not particularly feel anything.

At last, the door inched open again, and the guards conferred briefly with someone behind them. They nodded resolutely and pushed the doors shut once again as they turned toward Roy.

"They will see you now," the second guard said. Roy stood and absent-mindedly smoothed the wrinkles in his suit and lapel as they pushed open the doors for him. Riza lay a comforting, guiding hand on the arm Roy was using to hold his walking stick, while Wataru waited patiently on the leash Roy gripped in his other hand. As the man on the other side of the doors raised his booming voice to announce the arrival of the Most Honorable Chief Advisor to the Chancellor of Amestris, Roy stepped past him to enter a huge amphitheater he could sense was filled with two hundred-odd men of varying ages, most in their forties or fifties. With Wataru and Riza on either side of him to lead, he made his way confidently down step after step, keeping his head erect and a sense of alertness in his filmed eyes. Although they had all stood up out of formal respect for his presence, most of the men had their backs to him, intently facing the front of the room, where a sixty-something, balding man whose last few strands of hair were colored like pepper watched him with half-lidded icy blue eyes, pressing the fronts of his thighs against the large paper-littered oak desk before him. Roy felt him there, and Riza confirmed his estimate by whispering discreetly to him that it was William Heralds, elected head of the legislative body. Few men swiveled their heads to watch the Chief Advisor, along with his wife and aide dog, walk into the box reserved for him at one side of the room.

"The legislature may be seated," Heralds commanded, watching the Mustang family settle calmly into their chairs before taking his own seat and clasping his hands. After several moments of letting the shuffling of suits and seats and papers gradually desist, Heralds spoke. "On behalf of the House of Amestris, I thank you for your punctual arrival, Chief Advisor Mustang," he said genially to Roy. "We are glad to know that our summons reached you in time."

"I must thank you, in turn, for being so efficient," Roy smiled.

"Well, unfortunately, sir, we have no time for pleasantries," Heralds's tone turned matter-of-fact. "We are limited on time." He leaned forward and tapped the tips of his fingers together, inquiring, "Do you happen to know why we have asked you to join us today?"

Roy told himself he should say something. But somehow, he could not bring himself to do so. He only kept his unseeing gaze steady. The wait was almost over.

"There has been a great amount of civil unrest in every region of Amestris lately," Heralds said. "We have several representatives here from every part of the country reporting distress and dissatisfaction from their constituents. We have all received a number of letters and dealt with many lobbyist agendas concerned with the causes and aftermath of the Ishbalan War. When the majority of us were sent petitions asking for a country-wide vote to be cast about whether to place you and your comrades on trial for the Ishbalan War crimes, we acquiesced. The votes were counted a few days ago." He paused to watch for a reaction of shock or dismay or perhaps even humor from Roy. There was nothing. "Chief Advisor, you are to be put on trial in the Great Court for the Ishbalan War crimes within the next week. In the meantime, you will be stripped of your title and power. If you are found unpardonable—" Heralds cleared his throat, his eyes softening only a little—"you will be subject to immediate execution or exile, in accordance with the law."

Roy nodded quietly. Then he asked, "I am the only one being called to be put on trial, correct?"

Heralds hesitated. "Well, your trial is the most in demand, but the people wish to bring _all_ of the most prominent Ishbalan War criminals to justice as well."

Roy did not flinch. "Is Riza Mustang one of them?"

Next to him, Riza brushed his arm and began to murmur something, but he paid her no heed, and she soon quieted.

"Yes, sir," Heralds finally answered.

Roy took a moment to consider his words before leaning forward and addressing every man in the amphitheater. "Gentlemen, don't you think it would cause the country more stress than necessary to put all of the war criminals on trial at once?" Roy queried. Not that he was expecting all of them to answer at the same time; they waited for him to continue, most of their expressions unreadable. "I will, of course, accept an indictment if the people wish it, but I want to ask you to consider not calling anyone else to trial until mine is finished. I am likely the one of whom they are most scared, after all. If I am able to obtain amnesty, then there should be no reason to try anyone else."

"What precisely are you proposing, Chief Advisor Mustang?" Heralds broke in, eyeing him with furrowed brows.

"I'm explaining that I will accept the indictment on the grounds that I be the only war criminal tried for now," Roy answered patiently. "My comrades should be tried only if I am found unpardonable first. None of them did anything worse than what I did."

Heralds scanned the amphitheater knowingly. "We will discuss your conditions. They are in keeping with the law, but we have a duty to represent our constituents' desires."

"I realize that," Roy said. "You may take your time." All was silent. Roy almost smiled at the awkward atmosphere, though he did not know how to alleviate the anxiety on the representatives' minds. After all, how could he possibly make them understand how he felt? "Are we finished here?"

"Apologies for taking up so much of your time, sir," Heralds said. "We have nothing more to say." He motioned toward a group of soldiers Riza only just noticed lurking stoically in one corner of the room. Roy furrowed his brows when he sensed them step forward in unison. "The Great Court has arranged an escort for you, eight soldiers who will monitor you in shifts of four at a time for the duration of the trial."

Roy fought a grimace. "Well, it can't be helped." He stood with as concentrated an air of nonchalance as he could muster, and the House of Amestris hurriedly rose with him. He bowed to them. "Thank you for your summons. Have a good day, gentlemen." With that, Riza and Wataru again guided him as he swept out of the box and made his way back up to the top of the amphitheatre, shoulders square, back straight, grim-faced soldiers now tailing his every step.

As the guards swung open the doors for him, he imagined that this was the way he would walk to his gallows.

* * *

**AHA!! Chapter 1 is COMPLETE!!**

**.... It gets more exciting than this, don't worry. The action is being set up. :3**

**FYI, the name Jadon means "He will judge; grateful," and according to Nehemiah 3:7 in the Bible, it was the name of one of the several builders and repairers of the Jeshanah Gate of Jerusalem and its surrounding area. We thought it would be a fitting name because it would refer to how the birth of their first son might have helped "repair" Roy and Riza, who probably never considered deserving children in the first place. On the other hand, Zach means "pure or clean." Together, the two boys seem to represent the ideals, skills, and hope for the future Amestris; the next generation will hopefully keep their hands clean and thus rebuild a shattered country.**

**Furthermore, the name "Wataru" means "navigation."**

**From here on out, I'll post a chapter once a week, while Fudfoodle will put up comic strips as often as she is able. Please **_**don't**_** forget to check her out. :3**


	2. Of A Storm Of Elrics

**Hey, look! It's Chapter 2! Um…. Yes. I don't feel like repeating all the disclaimers and rules, so if you want refreshers, or if you're new to the story, please refer to the first chapter.**

**HOWEVER!! Since it is of utmost importance, I shall remind everyone that my wonderful friend and co-executive producer, Fudfoodle, is creating comic versions of each chapter and posting them on her deviantART page, and I not only recommend but **_**demand**_** that you go and check her out and give her all the oodles of love she deserves, which is a lot. :3 Due to time constraints and the fact that it takes longer to draw out each chapter than to write them, I'll be updating quicker than she will, but you won't be sorry to keep regular tabs on her. She is full of goodness of all kinds. :D She should be getting the first page of Chapter 2 up at some point today, she told me. I have to update now because I have a busy day waiting for me upon the morrow and am not sure how often I'll be around my computer. And it's just half an hour after midnight where I am, so it's _technically_ Friday (update day!) for me. XD  
**

**Also, since I got a couple of comments about it, I went and omitted my mentioning of Wataru's breed and simply gave him a general description. –shrugs- I'm not really an expert on dog breeds. Anyone who is still bothered by it can borrow the mallet I gave to Fudfoodle specifically designed to knock sense into me when necessary. XD**

**Furthermore, Fullmetal Alchemist = not mine or Fudfoodle's. Weep with us. Weep copiously and with reckless abandon.  
**

**Okay, now stop it, all you crybabies! :D Continuing the story now.**

**_Edit: Dang it, I keep forgetting that the page breaks I make in Word don't translate to the site...._  
**

* * *

**In The Name Of Peace**

_Chapter 2: Of A Storm Of Elrics_

Edward could not figure out why people always seemed to think he was an irritable person. In general, he considered himself fairly positive, especially given all the circumstances. After all, if he truly did not have a happy, caring bone in his body, how could he have found the inspiration to persevere through all his hardships? Besides, as long as no one pushed his buttons, he had no problem being friendly.

On this particular morning, Ed was on a jaunt through the marketplace of Resembool, alchemy book in hand, humming a jolly tune as he mentally reviewed the highly useful information the book had provided, smiling and nodding at the passersby he knew. A nearby toddler girl dropped her doll in a puddle, so Ed scooped it up and transmuted the dirty water and mud away before she could shed a tear. One of his friends stopped him and asked whether he would like a free loaf of bread, as the man had bought one too many anyway. The flowers were finally fully in bloom, their sweet scents tickling tantalizingly at the edge of his nose. Sunlight fell in an enrapturing flood everywhere, even bending around corners so that there was little in the way of shadows. When Ed arrived at the library to return his book, the librarian waived his late fee because it was his first time committing such a minor offense, and, after all, he was such a nice young man. Ed agreed.

A few blocks away, though, there stood the teenage boy who would completely ruin his morning and remind everyone of the temper Ed truly possessed.

"CHIEF ADVISOR MUSTANG GETS CALLED TO TRIAL! READ ALL ABOUT IT!" the boy shouted, repeating the headline again and again in every direction until it seemed half of Resembool had come to clamor around him, vying for a copy of the newspaper. Ed slowed and stopped to watch the crowd at the corner of the street opposite where he was standing—good deeds, free carbohydrates, perfumed flowers, radiant sunshine, _and _waived library fees all completely forgotten. The news boy eagerly took every cenz he was handed, a silly, self-satisfied grin plastered across his face as he continued to raise his voice over all the din, announcing, "CHIEF ADVISOR MUSTANG GETS CALLED TO TRIAL! READ ALL ABOUT IT!"

Ed did not like that grin.

He marched toward the boy and snatched a newspaper from his hand, exclaiming, "Let me see that!" He skimmed the article. _Seven years ago. Promised Day. Coup d'état. Democracy. Civil unrest. Distrust. Petition. Country-wide vote. Ishbal War crimes. Trial. Next week? Execution?!_

" 'Scuse me, sir," the news boy tapped him on the shoulder. "I need two cenz, please." Even with one paper still unpaid for and dozens more people appearing to jostle him for more, the boy still had that excited grin on his face.

Ed simply _did not_ like that grin.

"_What the hell do you think you're smiling about, dolt-brain_?!" he snapped, sloppily rolling the newspaper up and whacking the boy on the head with it. Then, tossing a couple of cenz over his shoulder, he turned, checked to see that no one would be mauled in the warpath he was formulating in his mind, and began sprinting madly for home.

Gritting his teeth as he neared the grassy path that led to the house Granny Pinako had left for him, Al, and Winry in her will, he huffed, huffed, and, finally reaching his peak of ire over the way his perfectly lovely day had very quickly taken a downturn, he raised his head and yelled at the heavens, as though it was all _their _fault.

"THAT DAMN MUSTANG'S ONLY PURPOSE IN LIFE IS TO RUIN MINE!!"

* * *

Four-year-old Emily cocked her head toward the window, pushing a few stray strands of her wheat-colored hair behind her ears as her dark gold, sky-flecked eyes scanned the horizon. She had heard an unmistakable noise and, already half-knowing its source, checked for the clouds of dust that she knew would confirm her suspicions. And indeed, it seemed that the wake of destruction was close.

"Mommy, Daddy's home!" she announced, abandoning her crayons and meticulous coloring to press her face against the glass.

"What? Already?" Winry turned off the faucet on the sink and hurried toward the living room window, peering out as she dried her hands with a towel. "How can you....?" She trailed off as Edward's undeniably enthusiastic person came into view, his arms and legs pumping wildly. "Something must have happened," she murmured, then sighed, "But he doesn't need to leave such a mess behind him."

Tossing the towel aside, she walked toward the front door and waited a few moments, nodded slightly to herself four times, and then swung the door open. Ed came barreling through, his shocked scream muffled by his face slamming to the floor after his feet tripped over the rug. As Winry calmly closed the door and he had his fill of self-pitying groaning, Ed scrambled up and turned a face of fury toward his wife.

"_What the hell was that for?!_" he exclaimed.

"What makes you think you can tear through the town like that?" Winry asked, crossing her arms and widening her stance.

"I wasn't tearing through anything!"

"Did you not _notice_ the _tornado_ you were kicking up behind you?"

"Stupid, you're exaggerating!"

"Oh, please, _you're_ a living, breathing, _walking_ exaggeration."

"What does that even mean?! There's no way you knew I was coming!"

"Well, it was Emily who told me."

Edward whirled toward his daughter, who unabashedly fluttered her eyelashes and said, "It was obvious, Daddy."

He directed his glare at Winry. "She's your daughter."

"She's yours, too," Winry huffed, shaking her head and making her way back toward the kitchen. "She's very, _very_ yours."

"Ed?" Alphonse called as he bounded down the stairs. "You're home already?"

"Yeah," Ed snorted. "And suddenly I wonder why."

A wrench to the head. Why, why, _why_ was he still always surprised when he would abruptly find himself bleeding on the floor with a steel tool-shaped indent somewhere on his forehead?

"Um...." Al scratched the back of his head, trying to step back from the possible line of fire as inconspicuously as possible. "Did something happen, Ed?"

Standing up and brushing himself off, Ed glanced around for the newspaper he had dropped sometime during all the commotion. Finally snatching it up, he shoved it at Al's chest. "Read the headline."

The further they sped through the article, the wider Al's eyes became. Winry slowly set a newly cleaned glass cup in a cupboard, closing it as she queried, "What's wrong?"

"Roy Mustang is being put on trial," Al informed her, holding the newspaper toward her.

"What? Why?" Winry answered the question herself when she took the offered paper and read through the article. "The Ishbal War crimes? But the Ishbal War happened _years_ ago!"

"The people are nervous that he's still the person he was then," Ed shrugged, frowning deeply. "It's never helped that a lot of people still maintain that despite his motives for overthrowing the militarist regime, he's technically guilty of treason."

"I've heard people talk in town, too," Al admitted. "A lot of them think the Ishbalans deserve compensation for the past."

"That's true, but to put Mr. Mustang on trial with the threat of execution?" Winry shook her head in disbelief. "He's done so much for this country since he overthrew Bradley! He's even tried to get schools to accept—"

"But hardly anyone knows about any of that," Ed interrupted. "He tries to respect the Ishbalans' privacy, so he tries to work toward saving them without letting it get out all over the media."

Winry scowled. "Well, now's the time to make his actions public."

Al sighed. "Even if he could, people will still be suspicious of him."

"W-Well...." Winry spluttered, setting a wooden bowl into another cupboard and then roughly pushing it shut. "People are ridiculous." She rubbed the space between her eyebrows and shook her head. "I can't believe this is happening." Their earlier spat apparently forgotten, Edward somberly walked to her side and squeezed her shoulder. Winry cast him a pleading expression that made his shoulders sag a little. "Isn't there anything we can do?"

Ed rubbed and patted her arm. "I'm going to try. I was thinking I'd head to Central tomorrow. I may not be a State Alchemist anymore, but I bet I've still got _some_ influence." He tightened his fist. "Maybe I can knock some sense into those bastards in the legislature."

"Don't fight anyone, Ed," Al sighed exasperatedly.

"I'm not stupid!" Ed spat, glowering, not noticing the way Winry rolled her eyes. He did, however, notice how Al tried to suppress a smirk, but by the time he shot a look toward his wife, she was already wearing a mask of innocence.

"Well, anyway, I'm coming with you," Al said.

Ed nodded, but Winry spun away from his arm to shake a finger in his and Al's faces in turn. "_Oh, _no. You are _not_ leaving me behind again! I'm coming, too!"

"Winry, it could be dangerous," Al said warningly. "There are bound to be assassins going after Roy. The fewer people there associated with him, the better."

The exasperation in her sigh and the way she momentarily threw her head back let the brothers know that she was not going to let _that_ argument stop her from doing as she wanted. "I'm coming," she repeated.

"You've got customers!" Ed countered.

"They'll be fine for a while," Winry replied firmly. "And if there's an emergency that requires me to come back up, then I'll run up, take care of it, and go back to Central."

"And spend all our savings on travel expenses?!" Ed cried.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Winry waved a hand dismissively at him. "Between my work, yours and Al's published studies, and the odd mercenary missions Chancellor Armstrong asks you to do—" Her tone suddenly began dripping with suppressed impatience—"_and_ since we really only ever hang around_ here_ most of the time, we've got more savings than we know what to do with." She then shot him that expression that he knew meant it would be useless to fight with her further. "I'm _not_ missing out on this, Edward Elric."

"Can I come to Central, too?" Emily suddenly piped up, having scampered over to stand in the middle of the adults, the most advantageous spot for her to weaken them with her adorable face.

"Absolutely not!" Edward answered without hesitation.

"Why not?" his daughter whined.

"Because it's dangerous. We'll leave you with the Druyeks. With—what's his name?—Trent's parents."

Emily wrinkled her nose. "Trent likes to wipe his snot on me."

Ed's eyes suddenly blazed dangerously. "He _what_?!"

"This is a grown-up thing, honey," Winry sighed patiently as she knelt and gently turned Emily's face toward her. "It really would be better if you stayed here."

"We never go anywhere!" Emily pouted.

"I promise, we'll take you somewhere _amazing_ once we're back from Central," Winry smiled.

"Isn't _Central_ amazing?" Emily insisted.

"Not at all!" Alphonse stepped in, giving his niece his most convincing grin. "It's the most boring place in the world! In fact, Uncle Al will probably spend most of his time sleeping."

Emily regarded him shrewdly. "Are you lying, Uncle Al?"

Al looked taken aback. "N.... Well...."

Emily wrapped her arms around his leg. "I want to come with you! Please!"

"Emily, you're not coming, and that's that," Ed said. The little girl shot him a wounded look, but he ignored his paternal desire to instantly give her everything she wanted and instead repeated himself, more sternly this time. "You're _not_ coming_._"

Silence fell as Emily's lower lip trembled. Winry scooped her up and patted her back consolingly. "Come on, little one," she said. "It's about time for your nap anyway. Give kisses."

"I don't want to nap!" Emily whimpered between bestowing her tiny kisses on her father's and uncle's cheeks. "I want to go with you!"

"We're not leaving until tomorrow," Winry replied soothingly as she mounted the staircase. Their voices went out of earshot once they made it to the top of the steps and closed Emily's bedroom door behind them.

"Poor Emily," Al sighed.

"Yeah, well," Ed folded his arms with a matching sigh, "it's no place for her to be. Bad enough that Winry's coming."

Alphonse allowed a small shrug. "She'll probably be a big help, though."

"She probably will," Ed nodded. "But I'd rather she stayed safe. Not that she'll listen to _me_, even if I _am_ her damn husband."

Al smirked at that.

* * *

But the younger alchemist downright laughed the following morning when, in the living room, Emily grabbed onto Edward's neck in a choke-hold no four-year-old girl should know how to do. He gathered himself together when he realized his brother's face was turning what would have struck him as a rather lovely shade of periwinkle if it were not for the danger the color implied.

"Emily, Emily!" Winry exclaimed as she set down her traveling bag and tried to pull Emily off her husband's back. "You have to let go!"

"I want to come!" the little girl cried.

"We already told you no!" Winry replied, trying to pry Emily's fingers from the clasped positions they held on her elbows. "Let go, you're hurting Daddy!"

At that, Emily acquiesced, but she immediately latched herself onto Ed's leg instead, balancing her tiny toddler feet on her father's nice, shiny black shoe. Ed tried to walk but almost fell over, forcing him to throw his hand out at the tall lamp nearby, which almost gave out under the sudden pressure, so he hurriedly swung it back and grit his teeth when he overcompensated and rammed it against his skull.

"Would you get off me?!" he snapped.

"I want to come!" Emily said again.

"I already told you you're not!" Ed responded irritably.

"Yes, I am!" Emily persisted.

Al was folding his arms and politely waiting for the girl's parents to make the decisions. Winry had resorted to massaging her forehead with her index finger and thumb. Finally, Ed leaned down, slipped his hands under Emily's shoulders, and lifted her, glowering into eyes that glowered right back. He opened his mouth to scold her, but in a flash of a strange sort of fatherly pride, he suddenly realized that his daughter's eyes were almost identical to his own. She had also somehow inherited that face of Winry's that told him her decision was already made, and if anyone were to stop her from implementing it, there would be hell to pay. As well as, perhaps, Edward's pocket.

"Okay, all right," he sighed as he set her back on her feet. "You're coming with us."

Winry's eyebrows shot up. Ed wondered if she had any idea that their daughter had her face. "She's _what_ now?"

"Either we take her with us and keep her under control," Ed scowled, "or we come back to find a pile of rubble where Resembool used to be." Fighting back a grin to match the one that had pasted itself across Emily's bright face, he ruffled her hair, which she mildly protested. Then he swung both their traveling bags onto his shoulder, took her hand, and led her out the front door and onto the porch. Al and Winry followed, exchanging puzzled but accepting glances.

"Yay! Thank you, Daddy!" Emily exclaimed as she two-leggedly hopped down each step. "I promise I'm going to be very helpful!"

"We'll see about that, Pipsqueak," Ed smirked.

"Hey! I'm _not_ a pipsqueak!" The girl's sudden mood change startled Ed. He almost burst out laughing at the way she scrunched up her nose to glare at him, weakened by the single cuteness of it as well as how much she continued to remind him of her mother. Rather than release the urge to laugh, however, he settled with an amused smile.

Ed glanced over his shoulder at Winry, smile still in place. "Your daughter."

"Ohoho," Winry shook her head and chuckled. "_So_ yours."

* * *

**Yet more necessary set-up, but hopefully, you were amused. XD Ah, I do so love these characters.**

**Oh, oh, and Emily means "to strive or excel or rival." Seems like a suitable name for a brilliant and headstrong Elric/Rockbell child, the perfect blend of her parents. XD**

**Next chapter next week! Fridays are update days! Oh, but it drives even **_**me**_** crazy to wait that long. I have plenty of buffer prepared, and I've **_**really**_** enjoyed writing this story and am so excited to be sharing it. :3**

**Chapter 3's title: Of New Circumstances and Old Friends.**


	3. Of Old Friends and New Circumstances

**Now for Chapter 3! Disclaimers and rules posted at the beginning of Chapter 1 still apply. Please don't forget to pay a visit to fudfoodle . deviantart . com to see Fudfoodle's **_**wonderful**_** comic adaptations of each chapter! :3**

* * *

The knocks at the front door were sharp and rapid, emanating a sense of urgency. Black Hayate raised his head from where he was resting at Riza's feet, ears perking toward the direction of the sounds, no longer a young puppy that barked at every disturbance. Wataru only blinked idly and remained at his place at Roy's feet, unwilling to move from his master unless commanded. Having agreed to talk as little as they could where Roy's escort could hear, Riza glanced at her husband across the platter of chicken and plates of vegetables aligned neatly along the middle of the dining table, finding his expression blank to anyone who did not know that the miniscule raising of his left eyebrow implied a question. She distinctly but lightly kicked his ankle twice, which they had decided meant "yes." The soldiers stood obliviously and mutely at each corner of the room, heedless to the curious but rather uncertain way Jadon and Zach kept stealing looks at them. The boys said nothing, though; they had learned to intuitively pick up on the privacy of their parents' wordless conversations and how much tighter their every physical action became when it was prudent to remain as silent as possible. After Roy gently but quickly kicked Riza's ankles thrice—meaning "me"—Riza placidly turned her attention back to her plate, and Roy cleared his throat awkwardly as he stood, his chair screeching mildly on the hard floor. He stopped when he heard the cutting of air as the soldier adjacent to him immediately raised a bayonet in front of his chest.

"Pardon us, sir, but we cannot allow you to answer the door," the soldier said, keeping his bayonet in place.

Roy gave himself a moment to quell the urge to snarl. Then, straightening his shoulders determinedly, he turned to the mouse-haired, hazel-eyed, be-freckled soldier whose bayonet was still annoyingly close to his person, fixing him with the disconcerting scrutiny of a blind man. "I'm sorry, what's your name?"

The soldier paused to blink, betraying a hint of surprise before answering. "Sir, I am Private Ryan Melbourne."

The knocks sounded from the front door again, this time louder, firmer, and a bit slower, as though whoever was on the other side was concerned that the residents of the house were not only deaf, but imbecilic. Black Hayate rose to his feet, wagging his tail, his curiosity apparently unbearable, while Wataru merely yawned. "Well, Private Melbourne," Roy said, forcing himself to retain his patience, "if I may not answer my front door, who will?"

"You must ask one of us, sir," Private Melbourne replied. His face flushed embarrassedly as he found himself wondering whether the Chief Advisor could somehow see his soul with those milky eyes.

"I have to ask one of you," Roy repeated flatly.

"Yes, sir," Private Melbourne affirmed, his larynx bobbing briefly.

"Why is that?"

The private licked his lips once and darted his eyes away. "We cannot allow you a chance to run away, sir."

Riza watched him nod slowly and noticed the way his shoulders stiffened. "Roy," she sighed.

At the sound of his wife's voice, Roy closed his eyes for a moment and regained his composure. He smiled genially at the man whose bayonet he could sense _still_ wavered in front of him. The knocks on the front door came yet again, though now it was more akin to banging, and there was cause to worry that the door might be pushed off its hinges. "Private Melbourne, would you please answer the door?"

After a tense moment, Melbourne nodded pointedly at one of the other soldiers. They each saluted and exited the room, Riza grabbing onto Black Hayate's collar and muttering a "sit" command to keep him from following. Roy took his seat, allowing a touch of the sour impatience he felt over being constantly monitored in his own home to creep onto his face, and Wataru licked his hand affectionately. Though it was two rooms away, the Mustang family realized they could now hear arguments coming from the other side of the front door. Roy and Riza, having recognized the voices as those of Edward, Alphonse, and Winry Elric, abruptly straightened, anxiously waiting for their friends to appear.

"Stop knocking so loud, Ed. Maybe he's not home."

"Where else would he be? Besides, that's his car."

"Then maybe you scared him off with your obnoxiousness."

"_What_?! I'm just trying to make sure he hears us!"

"You're upset and, as usual, can't handle it like a mature person, so you're practically breaking down his front door!"

"Brother, Winry, this isn't—"

"Look, if you're just going to—"

They heard the front door swing open. A long pause. Then Ed.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Will you let them in, please, Private Melbourne?" Roy called, rising slightly from his seat to ensure that his voice carried through the rooms.

"Chief Advisor Mustang is required to have a military escort with him at all times," they heard Melbourne explain. "You will need to submit to a search so that we may confiscate anything deemed compromising in the Chief Advisor's presence."

"So, what, you're going to strip us of our weapons, then?" Ed's voice was heavy with impatient contempt.

"Well, yes, sir, if you have them."

" Because the famous Flame Alchemist and Hero of Ishbal _and_ Chief Advisor of Amestris, who is married to the head of the _elite_ military security and legendary Eye of the Hawk, might just be helpless against us?"

"Sir, we also have no reason to believe you wouldn't try to conspire against _us_ with them."

"You don't know who I am?"

"Ed...."

"Brother...."

"I'm Edward Elric. I was the Fullmetal Alchemist seven years ago. And I _was_ in cahoots with Chancellor Mustang, back when he was just a bastard colonel. Obviously, no one, not even a psychopathic humanoid Philosopher's Stone, was able to stop us from ousting Fuhrer Bradley. What makes you think you can stop us from entering Mustang's house?"

A pause.

"Mr. Elric, I _will_ need to search you."

The sound of a transmutation.

"_Dammit, search me while I've got this!_"

A thwack.

"Ed, how many times have I told you not to transmute my automail?!"

"_Dammit, Winry!"_

"And stop swearing in front of Emily!"

"If you want her to grow up to be such a fine, outstanding citizen, stop being _violent_ in front of Emily!"

"Oh, I do _not_ want to hear that from _you_!"

"Brother, Winry, please sto—"

"Sir, you can't—"

"_Would you let us through already?!_"

Suddenly, there seemed to be a great deal of scuffling and grunting, occasionally broken by an exasperated comment from Winry or Al. Riza dropped her fork, covered her face in her hands, and shook her head slowly, mumbling something about not believing it. Roy was unable to decide whether he felt mortified or deeply entertained. The boys, however, were not undecided at all. They turned in their chairs, balancing on their knees as they tried to see what was happening, grinning curiously. When Zach let out a giggle, Riza raised her head and hastily commanded them to seat themselves properly, and they listened, though their amusement remained in full force. The other soldiers of the escort kept exchanging wary glances, unsure of whether they should join the fray to aid their comrades or remain to keep watch on the Chief Advisor. The noises came closer to the dining room, closer and closer, until Edward burst through the entryway, panting lightly, studying each occupant in turn. Alphonse and Winry appeared behind him, Winry firm-mouthed and blushing while clutching a complacent Emily in her arms, Al looking simultaneously apologetic and annoyed. Roy raised his eyebrows toward their direction in a wry greeting, chin resting on his fist, and Edward glared.

"You really are a bastard, you know that?"

Roy could not help but smirk and chuckle at that. "Good to have you here, Edward."

Ed crossed his arms and scowled indignantly when Melbourne and the soldier he had taken with him to answer the door shoved past him, crimson-faced and tussled, and stood erect at their previous posts in the corners of the room.

"Edward Elric here to see you, sir," Melbourne said tightly.

"Thank you, Private Melbourne," Roy nodded with a sardonic amiability.

Winry walked to Riza and bent to hug her with one arm, using the other to keep Emily awkwardly balanced on her hip. After a moment, she backed away, keeping a hand on Riza's shoulder, and looked back and forth between her and Roy with an expression of sincere concern. "Are you guys all right?"

"Yes, we're all right," Riza assured her, patting her hand. Then she gestured toward the empty chairs around the table. "Please, have a seat. Feel free to take some food. You're probably hungry if you came all the way from Resembool."

"Thank you very much," Winry said politely as she set Emily in a chair next to Zach, while the Elric men immediately began dishing themselves up across the table from the kids.

"We came as soon as we heard what was happening," Ed explained as he sliced himself some chicken, offering some to Al as well.

"We're going to see if we can talk any of the legislative authorities into having the trial cancelled," Al continued, accepting the chicken from Ed and smothering it in gravy.

"That's very kind of you," Riza smiled, "but I don't think there's anything anyone can do."

"There has to be _something_," Winry sighed as she cut Emily's chicken into bite-size pieces. Glancing at the way the girl grimaced at her plate, she murmured gently, "Eat your vegetables, Emily."

"Have you read the papers at all?" Roy asked before slipping a forkful of food into his mouth.

"That's how we found out about the trial," Al answered.

"Then you should also know the country is very divided about this. There are people on every end of the response spectrum—people who think my past is nothing to be concerned about, and other people who think it defines everything that I am," Roy mused. "There's a lot of confusion and unrest. The least we could do is try to unify opinion with a trial. Maybe it will put some people's minds at peace."

"I still don't like it," Winry pursed her lips.

"Well, we can't expect everyone to _know_ Roy," Riza said calmly. "They only know what the newspapers and magazines tell them. And times are different now. In the light of democracy and subsequently the emergence of more basic human rights, points of view on the Ishbal War are changing." She paused thoughtfully. "We are no longer seen as heroes, but as ancient enemies of the fundamental rights of humans. And we're still in power. They've realized now that they have a right to a trial of one of the leaders of their country, someone who's supposed to represent everything they now stand for." At Winry's skeptical expression, Riza smiled sadly. "We've seen this coming for a while now, Winry. We knew it would happen long before we ever began trying to overthrow the Fuhrer."

"But so much has happened since then," Ed said, gesturing impatiently with his fork. "I mean, I understand why the people would be concerned, but after everything you've done—" He cut off, shaking his head and stabbing at a piece of chicken. "How did they manage to get organized enough to call you to trial anyway?"

"Apparently, here in Central, the issue has been prominent enough that some informal underground groups were started," Roy answered. "The largest ones are called the Movement to Cleanse Amestris"— Ed and Al snorted in unison while Winry clicked her tongue irritably—"and the Movement for Amnesty and Peace. They go by MCA and MAP, respectively."

Ed chuckled darkly. "This is the stupidest thing I ever heard of. They're organizing _groups_ now? And 'the Movement to _Cleanse_ Amestris'?" He scoffed. "Who do those bastards think they _are_?"

"We have to take them seriously, though," Al pointed out. "They're influential enough that the petitions they sent out managed to put Roy in the Great Court."

"Many of them have submitted articles to the local newspaper as well," Riza put in. "They write very powerfully. Many of them want to rid the country of any reminder of its past abominations. They want a clean slate and perfect justice."

"Ridiculous," Ed muttered. "They have no idea what justice _is._" Sighing, he stuffed more chicken into his mouth. After a gulp, he asked, "What was the other one called again?"

"The Movement for Amnesty and Peace," Roy said.

"That name's not any better," Ed grumbled. "But if the higher-ups won't listen to us, then we'll see what we can do to strengthen that group's influence. I'm guessing if they weren't able to stop the petitions in the first place, they probably need more voices on their side."

"Maybe if the jury hears more of what MAP has to say," Al mused with a nod, "they'll be more inspired to pardon you."

Riza opened her mouth to assure them that they did not have to go through so much trouble, but Winry placed a hand on her forearm to interrupt. "Don't worry. They'll take care of everything. And I'll help watch your boys as long as this is happening," she smiled kindly. "You just do what you have to do to stay sane and help make sure Roy is set free. Just focus on the trial."

"What _is_ a trial?" Zach inquired suddenly, focusing his big, clear blue eyes on each adult in turn. Each of them glanced uncomfortably at each other, with the exception of Roy, who tried not to grimace.

"Well, Zach," Riza finally answered, "when someone does something bad, or if it _seems_ like they did something bad, the people want to…." She considered the wording. "They want to _discuss_ whether that person truly did it, and whether they should be punished for it. There's also a person called a judge, who conducts the discussion, and if the people say the person is guilty, the judge decides _how_ to punish them."

Zach nodded slowly, carefully chewing on his food as though it embodied his mother's words. "But Dad hasn't done anything bad, has he?"

Roy smirked mirthlessly. "You don't need to worry about that, Zach. Just eat your dinner, please."

There was a long moment of nothing but forks scraping on plates, mouths moving, and throats gulping, and occasionally a quiet sip of water or Zach's small, cheerful "oops" noises when a pea would fall astray. With the adults' attention diverted by their burdened minds, Emily managed to sneak the majority of her green beans into Black Hayate's slobbering mouth; the few green beans that missed his tongue made such a soft _splat_ on the floor that no one looked up to catch her in her act. Indeed, her parents and uncle appeared to think their own green beans were somehow listening to their inward pleas, judging by the wistful way they stared at the vegetables.

"Are you going to die?"

It was Jadon whose small voice had pierced through the heavy atmosphere. He solemnly gazed at his father, whose filmed eyes had widened.

"Where did you hear something like that?" Roy asked evasively, trying to not betray his very sudden opinion that the food tasted like ashes.

"You've talked about trials for other people before," Jadon replied. "Sometimes, you say they die."

Blank-faced silence met his observation. Zach studied his brother with his brows furrowed, concerned, and Emily blinked in surprise. Several more _splats_ went yet unnoticed.

Riza cleared her throat. "It will be all right, Jadon," she said quietly.

But if the way she struggled to hide the trembling in her hands was any indication, it seemed that she was not so sure.

* * *

"I have been informed that everything is in place.

"This time, my friends, with your aid, we can be sure that all our most beautiful dreams shall come true. All the powers of eternity shall be ours to command.

"And those with the audacity to stand in our way....

"We shall ensure that they never know such joy."

* * *

**OMG WHO IS TALKING IN THAT LAST PART WHO COULD IT POSSIBLY BE AND WHAT ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT I HAVE NO IDEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAA except I totally do because Fudfoodle and I planned this out meticulously HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.**

**.... Well, I don't think I actually have anything particularly special to point out this time around. I just pretended for a second there. :3**

**Anyway, I hope this one's all right; I try to go through one last proofread of every chapter before I post it. Right now, though, the words are kind of blurring together like really well-made cookies-and-cream ice cream, which is a sure sign that sleep would be prudent. **

**…. Oh, dang it. Now I want ice cream.**

**I meant to update a few more things, too, and catch up on reading things I've been putting off reading, but this has been a hectic week, and on top of that, it turns out I have my niece and nephew for the whole WEEKEND!! I thought my little sister and I were going to get to take them to Chuck E. Cheese's for a little while today and then have to be done with it, but we get to have them until midday on Saturday! YAY, everybody rejoice! …. Not that too many people really care about that, I'm sure. XD –proceeds to ignore almost everything besides the kidlins for the next two days-**

**....**** Life is so crazy. Seriously. I really need to get the darn thing straightened out already.**

**Anyway, next chapter's title: Of First, Thousandth, and Lasting Impressions.**


	4. Of Impressions

**Here we are at Chapter 4! Here, we introduce a couple of instrumental OC's. Still a lot of talking and preparation, but we're almost ready to get to the **_**really**_** good stuff. :3 And again, please don't forget to check out fudfoodle . deviantart . com for the comic version!**

**.... Darn it, the whole title won't fit. :P Oh, well.  
**

* * *

_**In The Name Of Peace**_

_Of First, Thousandth, and Lasting Impressions  
_

Waiting to meet with his lawyer reminded Roy a little of when he was waiting to hear about whether he had been accepted as a State Alchemist. And when he had been in Ishbal, poised and ready for his superiors' command to go out and risk their lives yet again. And when he had been banished to the hospital halls while Riza was giving birth to Jadon and Zach. But back then, he had been allowed to relax, to calm himself, to meditate on his own.

It was far more difficult to do that when he was surrounded by four soldiers intent on standing mere inches from his person.

Blind though he was, there was no way to block out their smells, the sound of their breathing, or the fact that sensing souls had become second nature to him. He almost cursed Mei's kindness for teaching him before she returned to Xing after the Promised Day. He concentrated his frowning glower on the floor in front of him to keep from lashing out at his escort. Riza had had words with him the previous night after dinner with the unexpected arrival of the Elrics; she pointed out that he would contribute to the rumors of his hostile nature if he was unable to keep his temper in check. He would just have to grit his teeth and bear it. And he knew she was right.

When a secretary at last met him in the lobby of the Great Court's meetinghouse, any hope he had that he might be able to savor just a few blessedly private moments sans the soldiers were dashed when she made no move to dismiss his escort. They dutifully flanked him on each side as he was led down a hall, and he found he had to suppress his maniacal, cackling urge to whack them with his walking stick. Wataru, however, did not seem to mind, occupying himself with curiously sniffing every nook and cranny he could reach without straying too far from his master's side. At last, the secretary stopped near an office door that read _Thomas Gerry, Defense Attorney._ After setting a hand on Roy's upper arm to let him know they had reached their destination, she knocked familiarly on the door before opening it and giving a quick bow to the occupant. "Chief Advisor Mustang here for you, sir."

After a moment, the secretary stepped back to swing open the door fully for him. Roy focused his attention on the man he could sense inside, pudgy with cherry-blond hair and pale green eyes, sitting at the desk before him. After hearing the padding of paws and the tinkling of Wataru's license precede him, Roy absentmindedly tried to close the office door behind him, but upon accidentally smacking Private Melbourne in the nose with it, he suppressed a frustrated snarl and let in the soldiers. His lawyer wordlessly stood and held out his hand.

"Chief Advisor Mustang," he greeted, nodding solemnly.

"Mr. Gerry," Roy returned, finding the other man's hand and then noting his firm grip. They each took their respective seats at the desk, Roy's escort immediately taking position behind him. He calmly clasped his hands in his lap. "Thank you for agreeing to represent me."

Gerry studied him for a moment. "I don't know what to think about your character or your past, Chief Advisor," he said gruffly. "But I know you've done a lot of good for this country, and I figure that has to count for something."

Roy smirked appreciatively. "Thank you."

"So," Gerry said as he shifted in his seat and snatched up a nearby pen and notepad. "We need to prepare some statements. Why don't you tell me about your experiences in Ishbal?"

There was a long pause as Roy rubbed his fingertips together contemplatively, his eyes seeing images other than the solid, impenetrable darkness to which he had grown accustomed. At last, he met Gerry's unfaltering gaze with an earnest one of his own. "What more is there to tell?"

Gerry furrowed his brows. "What do you mean, sir?"

Roy took in a breath, then let it out with a shrug of his shoulders. "All of the important information about the war has already been circulated in newspapers, magazines, and books," he replied. "There's nothing more to say about Ishbal that hasn't already been said."

"That may be true," Gerry admitted. "But you have said very little about your own thoughts on the war. And to be honest, it hasn't helped your case up to this point."

"What do my feelings have to do with anything?" Roy asked. "I did what I did. It doesn't matter how I felt about it. It won't change what happened."

"But the people's primary concern is that you are still the person you once were," Gerry said.

"Well, they'd be a little bit right about that," Roy said. "I still feel sickened when I think about what I did, and I still feel sickened when I think about the military's true purposes there. I still use my fire alchemy as a weapon when I have to, though I haven't needed to as much since I was discharged." He leaned back and continued casually, a hint of amiable sarcasm in his tone. "I'm still in love with the same woman, I still miss my best friend, I still prefer being in action to doing paperwork, I still hate the rain." He stopped suddenly to consider, then went on in a more serious tone. "I still want to devote my life to protecting the people of this country. And I know that if it all happened all over again, I would still plot treason against the Fuhrer."

Gerry scrutinized him shrewdly before he finally snorted and chuckled. "They think you're a monster." Roy offered no response. The lawyer frowned slightly. "Are you a monster?"

Roy considered and shook his head. "Sometimes I'm not sure," he answered. "I've been told I was a monster and changed. I've been told I was never a monster at all." He sighed. "In a lot of ways, I'm _not_ the same person I used to be. I would never murder innocent people again. And I don't think I would seek revenge for wrongs committed against my friends anymore. I learned my lesson about that, too. But as for whether I'm a monster…." His voice went quieter. "I guess it depends on how you look at it. I just think of myself as _me_. I don't pretend to be anything more or less than that."

Hurriedly jotting notes, Gerry allowed Roy to meander among his own thoughts for a while. After some time, he leaned forward and drew the Chief Advisor out of his reveries. "So you felt disgusted about your actions in Ishbal, even then?" he queried. Roy nodded slowly. "Then why did you do it?"

The question incited a disturbingly blank stare from the Chief Advisor, made all the stranger given the milky blue color of his eyes. Gerry frowned and was about to try to gently prod Roy out of his memories until the latter man abruptly sat up and ruffled his hair irritably.

"Excuse me, Mr. Gerry," Roy smirked apologetically. "A lot of bad memories to sift through."

"I see," Gerry said. "Shall we wait to discuss it another time? Please keep in mind that—"

"No, no, it's all right," Roy shook his head. "I believed in the military back then. I honestly thought that whatever they did, they did in the name of protecting the country. That was a cause I wanted to be part of." He paused. "I started out thinking that they knew what they were doing. Then I gradually realized that we weren't really restoring order—we were committing genocide. When they officially ordered us to exterminate every last Ishbalan we could find, I...." He trailed off, but Gerry knew to wait for more. "That's when they started having me use my flames to burn entire cities down at once, rather than just a few people at a time like before. The first time I did it, it was like being in a dream. I told myself I wasn't really doing what I was doing, that people weren't really going to die. It was the only way I could do it. After that, I was so...." He gulped back the myriad of emotions playing across his face. "I felt so filthy that I figured I couldn't get any filthier. I was already beyond redemption. What was a few more people?" He sighed slowly. "They made it clear that if we didn't do what we did, _we_ would be the ones getting killed. It was us or them. So I made myself believe what I had to believe."

Gerry wrote quickly but thoughtfully, looking up inquiringly when he had finished and Roy remained silent, wearing a stoic yet tired expression. "What do you intend to plead for this case, Chief Advisor Mustang?" the lawyer finally asked.

"What do you mean?" Roy blinked.

"Depending on how you plead, the trial will proceed in a certain way," Gerry explained. "Guilty or not guilty?"

"I know that," Roy replied. "It just seems like the answer is obvious. I'm guilty, so I'm pleading guilty."

Gerry went to scribbling again but glanced at Roy from beneath his bushy eyebrows. "So you do know that the jury will be focusing on how strong a sentence to give you, and that there's a high chance you will be executed?"

"Of course."

Setting aside his pen, Gerry laced his fingers together and tapped them against his round, cleft chin. "What makes you so willing to accept this fate, Chief Advisor?"

Roy set his jaw. "I don't pretend to think I deserve forgiveness. I just want to make things right."

The words drifted softly in the air, settling like dust outshone by the streams of sunlight through the window. "I see," Gerry said quietly. Then he cleared his throat, copied Roy's response to his notepad, and stood. "Unfortunately, sir, I do have a meeting to attend, but I think we're ready to begin this trial."

"Really?" Roy raised his eyebrows as he, too, rose from his seat. "That's it?"

"I'm sure more issues will arise as the trial progresses," Gerry said, turning to retrieve his coat from the hanger in a corner several feet behind his desk. "We can't know everything that the prosecution is going to throw at us until they do it. But we have enough to begin with a strong defense."

"Strong?" Roy repeated as Gerry walked around him, hardly noticing as Wataru stood and wagged his tail so widely that it kept thumping against his calves. "Forgive me, but I don't see how—"

"Trust me, Chief Advisor," Gerry smiled with a modest kindness, moving to genially hold the office door open for Roy to pass. "You're a better man than you think."

* * *

"Is that so?" Ruth Gerry queried with a raised eyebrow from across the six-foot dining table, tucking cherry-blond strands of neck-length hair behind her ears as she settled into her seat. "I always figured he had to be better than everyone seems to give him credit for, considering all he's done for the country. But you're certain he was being truthful?"

"I've never seen a more candid expression on any of my clients before," Gerry said with a small nod.

"Well, now," Ruth leaned back in her chair. "That's very interesting." It occurred to her that she heard an odd screeching sound coming from a few plates down the table. She glanced at her twelve-year-old son, who was scraping his meatloaf to the other side of the mashed potatoes, muttering enthusiastically to himself about war strategies. "Derek, stop playing with your food and eat it!" Derek's disappointed sigh was met only by smug smirks from his three sisters; Ruth shook her head exasperatedly and gave her attention back to her brother with eyes as light a shade of green as his, though they glinted with a laughing intelligence. "It's just like I've been telling you—someone who risks as much as he has and makes that kind of turn-around with his life _has_ to be a good person. He made a lot of mistakes, but he's done his best to ensure they don't happen again. He achieved something most of us never thought possible, and he's never shown any sign of becoming a tyrant. He's just the sort of person this country needs—someone who's smart and strong but not too full of himself because he thinks he's never done anything wrong. He also has more firsthand knowledge of what's happened in this country than almost anyone else." She offered Gerry a roll, which he politely accepted. "If the people decide to execute him, or even just exile him, they're going to be sorry in the long run."

Gerry took a bite from the roll, inhaling slowly as he chewed. "That's what I think, too. But there's not really anything we can do about it besides defend him to the best of our ability and hope that the jury agrees with us."

"The biggest problem is that although most everyone knows about the _existence_ of MAP, hardly anyone knows what we believe," Ruth mused. "But public opinion and the emergence of new facts could sway the jury's verdict. What the Chief Advisor has revealed to _you _would help him a _lot _if more people knew what he said. We need to figure out a way to get MAP out into mainstream media."

Her brother gestured decisively at her with the remainder of his roll. "If _you_ can think of a way to spread MAP's influence, then _you_ can do it. I'll have my hands full just trying to defend the Chief Advisor against the prosecution sharks."

Ruth's brows furrowed worriedly. "Who's prosecuting?"

"Scott Dempsey."

Groaning and rolling her eyes, Ruth leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, shifting her stout body in an attempt to find a more comfortable position in which to deliberate the situation. "He's going to be relentless," she murmured. At a quiet exclamation of indignation from Derek, her eyes suddenly shot to her ten-year-old daughter. "Janet, for goodness sake, no kicking under the table. Don't make me tell you again."

"Well, that part isn't your concern," Gerry said matter-of-factly. "You leave the courtroom proceedings to me. If you can talk some sense into the people, then do it."

But Ruth was already stroking her lower lip with her index finger, a trademark that her twin brother knew meant she was deep in concentration and would only emerge of her own volition. "We've been talking about this issue a lot in my political theory class, too," she said distantly. "Most of the students were pretty young when the coup d'état happened, and many of them weren't so sure at first what they thought about Mustang. But after we weighed all the facts, most of them came to genuinely support him. Several were very upset to hear about the trial." Suddenly, she straightened. "Maybe I could offer them extra credit in return for helping me campaign for Mustang's pardon. I could have them write articles and send them to be published in the Central Daily." An intelligently roguish half-smile crept onto her face. "Yes.... That could really work. I think they would really go for that. Maybe then we could move on to magazines and broadcasts."

Gerry smirked at her. "You're going to bribe them with extra credit?"

Ruth shrugged and grinned. "Don't give me that look," she said. "It's all in the name of peace." Then she noticed her twin fourteen-year-old girls bickering with each other over the last jelly biscuit. "Oh, for goodness sake, girls, split it in half," she snapped. "Honestly, aren't you old enough to figure out how to solve your own problems?"

* * *

**Indeed, Ruth! I enjoy her. :D**

**Um…. I think I've got nothing interesting to say this time. Except YAAAY, we're almost done with the set-up! Just a few more chapters before the trial officially begins! Sorry if anyone's getting impatient; Fudfoodle and I wanted to be thorough. It's not a simple story. :P**

**Updates on Fridays! Title of Chapter 5: Of Well-Meaning Young Men and Women.**


	5. Of WellMeaning Young Men and Women

**Aaand here we are at Chapter 5. The pot has been found, filled with the ingredients for the stew, and now we're striking the match! Hee. Anyway, in this chapter, I got to include a bit of mild political and social commentary. Not much, but it was enough to make me a ridiculously happy and bouncy person while writing it. :3 I love this kind of stuff. I'm such a nerd. Gosh, I can't wait to publish my original crap. **

**I'm a little bit concerned with the pace of this one, but since I'm trying to keep the chapters relatively short, I'm hoping it turned out all right. I'm sure someone will tell me if it didn't, though. :3 Which reminds me--thank you for all the reviews and alerts so far! Especially the reviews. They are often immensely helpful to me. It's good to know what I do wrong _and_ what I do right.  
**

**Also, I meant to make some edits in the last chapter, but the week went _WHOOSH,_ and it hasn't happened yet. Tomorrow is a day off of work for me, so let's hope that it plods by so I that can get a lot of stuff done. -crosses fingers-  
**

**Check out Chapter 1 to review the summary of pairings and what else to expect. Also, remember to go and show Fudfoodle your appreciation for her comic version of the story at her deviantART account!**

**Oh, yeah, and we disclaim everything besides our OC's and plot. But that doesn't stop us from squeeing a lot and really, really, really hoping that Arakawa doesn't kill or maim anyone else (besides the bad guys) and thinking we could somehow talk sense into her if she tries it. Youthful dreams!**

* * *

_**In The Name Of Peace**_

_Of Well-Meaning Young Men and Women_

"Wait, _what_ are you trying to do?"

* * *

"You want me to put a word in to get the Chief Advisor's trial cancelled?"

* * *

"Look, you seem like a nice guy, but...."

* * *

"Oh, yeah, you're that famous Fullmetal Alchemist, right? Didn't you resign, though? What? Oh, the trial? Uh.... Look, I've got a lot of work to do...."

* * *

"Are you crazy?"

* * *

"You're crazy."

* * *

"Apparently, you're as crazy as you are short."

* * *

"Did he say that? Nah, you're not _that_ short. You've really grown a lot, actually. He was probably just trying to—Huh? The trial? Uh.... Are you crazy?"

* * *

"Yeah, you're crazy."

* * *

"It was the people's choice. It's got nothing to do with us."

* * *

"I know, it's a shame."

* * *

"Look, son, I know you're kind of young and naïve, so I'll make this simple for you to understand—the damn Chief Advisor deserves what he gets. End of story."

* * *

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing that can be done now."

* * *

"_Every one_ of them, Al," Edward groaned dramatically, letting his arms hang limply in his lap as he rested his chin on the outdoor café table, the sunny warmth of the day allowing them to comfortably enjoy the fresh air as they relaxed. "Every one of them rejected us."

Alphonse sipped at his glass of strawberry lemonade with more dignity than usual, perhaps trying to make up for his brother's lack thereof. "Some of them had good points, though. If it was the people's choice, there really isn't much anyone can do."

"But sometimes the people are stupid! And we're just _allowing _them to be stupid!" Ed insisted ardently, apparently unaware of how ridiculous he looked swinging his fists in the air while his chin remained on the table.

"That's democracy," Al shrugged. "You wanted it, too."

Ed sighed. "Well, I still think it's a good idea. It's just ironic that I feel like even less a person now than ever. Once _everybody_ starts talking, your voice gets lost pretty easily in all the noise." He looked up appealingly at Al. "Aren't democracies supposed to listen to _everyone_? Why isn't anybody bothering to hear _Mustang's_ side of the story?"

"They're putting him on trial, Brother, not tearing his house down with torches and pitchforks," Al said patiently.

"They may as well be, for all the chance they're giving him," Ed mumbled, glaring at his glass of water.

Al continued to suck at his lemonade until the sound of strangled air met his ears. He set the cup down, leaned back, and patted his belly. "Well, we're running out of options. Can you think of anyone else we can talk to?"

Shaking his head, Ed replied, "Not really. I guess now we have to hope for a mir—"

Newspaper in the face. There was definitely a newspaper on the table now, and it had definitely gotten there because it smacked him in the face.

"_WHAT THE HELL_?!" Ed screeched, pointing with a lividly trembling finger at the paper.

"Brother, would you quiet down?" Al hissed between grit teeth, trying to hide his flushed cheeks from the people who had swiveled in their seats to stare wide-eyed at them.

"Sorry, sir! I'm so sorry!" a light voice exclaimed, accented by the hasty clicks of heels on pavement. Ed and Al looked to their side to find a small, thin girl in her early twenties and a smart knee-length pencil skirt and button-up jacket running toward them as quickly as she could while wearing such inconvenient shoes. Her dark sepia hair, pulled tightly back into a high ponytail, swished against her angular oval face in her rush. She impatiently swept it away, turning sincerely apologetic gray eyes on Edward as she gathered up the newspaper. "I-I tripped when my heel got stuck in a crack on the sidewalk. I'm really sorry. I must seem like such a ditz. I hardly ever wear this kind of shoes."

Edward scrutinized her as Al politely addressed her. "It's all right, it's not a big deal." Grinning good-naturedly, he added, "I bet I would've done a lot worse if I had to wear those things!"

The girl blinked and smiled rather wonderingly at Al while Ed shot him a blank stare, unsure of what to make of his brother laughing at his own joke, especially one that provoked such a _strange_ mental image.

"I just tried to look extra nice today for work," the girl explained when Al's mirth subsided. Her cheeks reddened slightly as she fidgeted with the lapel of her jacket and tried unsuccessfully to smooth the wrinkles in her skirt where it clung to her thighs. "I'm still trying to prove myself to my superiors."

Ed snorted. "Take my advice and tell your superiors that they can—"

"See how dedicated you are because you're willing to risk tripping on sidewalks and smacking idiots in the head with newspapers," Al smoothly intervened, grinning winningly, pointedly heedless of Ed's indignant scowl.

The girl's pointed cheeks broke out into a wide smile that reached toward her pointed ears, and she laughed in a way that suddenly made the brothers realize that she was actually quite pretty. As she and Alphonse absurdly began finding things to chat about concerning shoes, sidewalks, and somehow eventually umbrellas and antibodies and plate tectonics, Edward suddenly noticed the headline of one of the articles in the paper the girl was clutching to her chest. He cocked his head, trying to make out what words he could around her slender arms. It was a few minutes before he abruptly realized that she and Al had ceased speaking, and her eyes were now boring into his head, mouth a thin line and one eyebrow raised. Even Al had his brows furrowed.

"Wh-What?" Ed glanced back and forth between them.

Al shot him a subtly scolding look and jerked his head toward the girl, who was still eyeing him with a sternly quizzical expression.

"What? I—" Upon turning his gaze back to the newspaper for a moment, he suddenly understood what it must have looked like he had been studying so intently. An inferno of blood rushed into his cheeks, and he frantically waved his hands in front of him. "N-No, I wasn't l-looking at—I wasn't staring—I—I was looking at your newspaper!"

"Oh?" the girl said coolly, though her face softened. There was a sharpness and quickness in her eyes, the sort of eyes that were able to pierce flesh to the soul, but she did not keep them on Ed for long. Instead, she looked up and down the front page of the paper, trying to find what might have caught Ed's attention. "Did you see something you were interested in?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Edward answered firmly, heart still trying to restore itself to its normal pumping rate after the sudden rush of mortification.

"Well, then here," the girl said, politely holding the newspaper out to him. "Take my copy."

"Oh, n-no, that's all right, we can find our own—"

"I insist," the girl smiled kindly. "I can get another one on my way to work. Consider this compensation for having hit you in the head with it."

After a moment, Ed found himself with half a grin on his face. He took the paper from her and nodded. "Thanks."

"And thank you _both_ for being so understanding." The girl shuffled her feet for a moment as she bestowed them part of that pretty smile, then checked the leather watch on her wrist and gasped lightly. "I'm so sorry, I'm running late. It was very nice to meet you both!"

With that, she waved hastily and hurried away, looking rather charmingly awkward as she ran as fast she could with legs she bended only slightly for fear of tripping over her additional three inches of shaky height. Alphonse turned to Edward with a raised eyebrow. "So what was so interesting that you had to look like you were staring at her—"

"I vote we forget about that whole incident," Ed sulked, his ears glowing pink. "And definitely _don't_ mention it to Winry."

At that idea, Al cocked his head and thoughtfully stared past Ed. Then he burst out chuckling with a deep and throaty wickedness.

"Don't do it, Al," Ed growled. When Al's response was only to break into actual dark laughter, Ed deftly and vehemently kicked him under the table. The younger alchemist jumped and rubbed his shin, interspersing his mad giggles with an occasional "Ow!"

By the time the waitress finally brought them the sandwiches they had ordered, Al had regained his composure. "So, really. What were you looking at in the newspaper?"

His attempt at a serious expression thwarted by the lettuce hanging out of his mouth, Ed flipped open his copy of the _Central Daily_. Al took it from him, chewing slowly as he perused.

"'What the people of Amestris are forgetting is that people are able to change, and Chief Advisor Mustang has more than proven this point by going beyond his call of duty to heal a country he helped break,'" Al quoted, his expression waxing mesmerized as he continued reading. "'They also forget that Chief Advisor Mustang isn't as different from those who signed the petitions as they think. He was willing to commit treason and, if necessary, kill the man who kept leading our country into certain destruction, to remove all symbols and powers pertaining to the terror for which our country used to stand—all of this in order to make up for his mistakes. Those who want to see the head of one of the greatest leaders of our time on a platter say that they want it for all the same reasons that he undeniably and unflaggingly aided in giving them the _right _to it. It took the murder of thousands for the Chief Advisor and the common citizen alike to wake up to the darkness that had shrouded the skies of our land. He is not alone in his misplaced trust. What marks the true difference between the Chief Advisor and his accusers, however, is that he had done his research, went forth with a contrite and humble heart, and knew that he was taking down a real evil, not only to atone for his sins, but to better protect those whose names he never knew but for whom he cared anyway. The people, on the other hand, the people he risked his whole life and career to save, merely want a scapegoat to escape the pain of their own blame. The Chief Advisor may end his life honorably; those who end said life have no hope of achieving such a feat.'" Having finished, Al gave himself a moment to absorb and then raised his eyebrows toward Ed. "Wow," he finally admitted. "This is really good."

"Yeah," Ed nodded, taking the paper back and glancing over it again. "Someone's finally speaking up for Mustang, and they're doing a good job of it."

"Who wrote it?" Al inquired before tearing off half his sandwich into his mouth.

Peering at the paper, Ed answered, "It's signed anonymously. But," he smirked smugly, "it says it was written by a member of MAP."

"Ah," Al nodded grandly, smiling with an open mouth before remembering it was better manners to keep the sandwich meat _behind_ his teeth. Gulping hurriedly, he asked, "It's in the letters to the editor section, right?"

"Yep."

"Do they mention an address? A headquarters, or.... Something?"

"Not exactly," Ed shook his head. "They say that the writer is from MAP's Central Academy Chapter."

"Well, then," Al raised his glass of water in a mock toast before taking a sip. "I guess we know our next destination."

* * *

"Excuse us," Ed said to the steel-eyed brunette receptionist at the desk of the admissions office. "We're kind of lost. Any way you could direct us to someone from MAP?"

The receptionist glowered. "You one of them?"

"Uh...." Ed blinked. "We're supporters."

While leaning back in her chair, the receptionist flipped her hair over her shoulder and crossed her arms. "You think the Chief Advisor isn't getting what was coming to him?" The brothers barely had time to exchange surprised glances before she plowed on with an acidic tone. "Because a couple of my friends are Ishbalan, and I don't appreciate the leader of our country getting away with what he did to their families."

"Sorry, but I have a few questions for you," Ed said, speckles of fury glinting in his dark gold eyes as Al fixed her with a hard stare. "First: Who took stupid pills and made _you_ the know-it-all? Second: How much do you _think_ you know about the Ishbalans? Third: How much do you think you know about the _Chief Advisor_? Fourth: Did I ask you about your opinion in the first place?"

The receptionist's lips firmed into a thin line, and her eyes flickered away for a moment before returning to meet his defiantly.

"I'll take that as a no," Ed said icily. "Care to remind me what I asked you? I can't seem to recall. I think I must have had to ask you so many questions that I forgot my _original_ one. I'm clearly an idiot, you see."

"Clearly," the receptionist replied with a frost to match Ed's. "Check out room 210. It's Ruth Gerry's office. She's a really outspoken _loyalist_ around here, and I hear she offered extra credit to her students for writing articles to send to the _Central Daily_." That sneer was so unbecoming for her facial structure. "Anything else I can help you with, sir?"

"No, that's actually perfect," Ed grinned in a way more reminiscent of a pugnacious primate than a human. "Thank you. You've been delightful."

With a nod of his head, Ed turned to saunter toward the double-rowed staircase at the end of the lobby, Al at his side. "I can't believe that," Al murmured tightly, his hands balling into fists.

"We'll just have to let it go, I guess," Ed frowned, though he rubbed his thumbs over his fingernails as though fighting back an itch to punch the nearest breakable object. "So.... What room did she say again?"

* * *

"You want to speak to my class?" the pudgy cherry-blond woman they now knew as Ruth Gerry paused in the act of pouring her cup of coffee to shoot them an incredulous expression.

Edward and Alphonse glanced briefly at each other before nodding in unison.

"Well...." Ruth considered, slowly sinking into the small sofa in her office, fingernails tapping against the ceramic mug. "Please don't misunderstand me," she said earnestly. "It's an honor for you to express so much interest in my students, Fullmetal Alchemist."

"I'm not a State Alchemist anymore," Ed put in.

"Mr. Elric, then?"

"You can just call us Al and Ed," Al smiled kindly, gesturing to himself and his brother respectively.

Ruth nodded, absentmindedly straightening her pearl necklace when it went askew under the small folds of fat in her neck. "Edward and Alphonse, it _is_ an honor. But what is it that you want to say to my students?"

"We want to submit ourselves for interviews for MAP," Ed explained. "We saw the letter that the editor published in the newspaper today, and we want to talk about our own experiences with Chief Advisor Mustang to help support him."

"I see," Ruth smirked, taking a sip of her coffee. "In that case, you are both more than welcome."

"Great!" Ed grinned.

"So when can we come?" Al asked, leaning forward and rubbing his hands together.

"Well," Ruth said as she cocked her head. "My political theory class meets in about an hour. That's the class that focuses on what's been going on with the Chief Advisor lately. We've also talked a great deal about the Ishbal War. Most of them _are_ very upset about the trial and would probably love to meet you. Would you like to talk to them today?"

"Would we!" Al exclaimed.

Ruth chuckled heartily. "All right, then," she said. "Don't be late." She gestured at them with her mug. "Coffee?"

* * *

"You know, you really didn't need that much caffeine," Ed laughed, watching Al as he spun and occasionally pranced in the hall.

"No way!" Al cried, his voice echoing. "I'm just ecstatic! We've finally caught a break! We're going to help save Mustang!"

"Quiet down," Ed shushed through his chuckles. "There are classes still in session here."

"Oh, come on, Brother," Al grinned as he neared a fork in the hallway. "No one can hear—"

Making full-body contact with a dark brown and peach-colored blur caused him to take the rest of his sentence with him to the ground.

"Al!" Edward ran toward him and the other person who had rammed into him when she rounded the corner near which Alphonse had been dancing so triumphantly. As he reached them and offered Al a hand up, Ed stared in consternation at the woman hastily gathering her scattered pens, notepads, and—was that a tape recorder? And was that....?

"You're that girl!" Al took the words out of Ed's mouth, pointing and gaping at her.

"U-Uh, um...." The girl from the café stuttered, dumbfounded. "Y-You're those guys!"

"What are you doing here?" she and Al asked together.

"W-We're, uh...." Al said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly as she continued gathering everything she had dropped. "Sorry about running into you. I was just excited because my brother and I get to speak to a political theory class."

The girl blinked. "What political theory class?"

"Ruth Gerry's," Ed answered. Her eyes widened. He queried, "Do you know her?"

"Well, not really," she answered. "She gave me permission to observe her class today. I don't think I told you—I'm a reporter for the _Central Daily_." She finally had her belongings organized inside her purse again, so she stood and began patting at her hair, making sure it was still secure in its tight ponytail. "I'm Audrey. Audrey Cyrus." Those alert eyes of hers now scrutinized them with a renewed interest, taking in every detail. "Why are _you_ going to speak in Ruth Gerry's class? Are you students?"

Al shook his head, a semblance of his earlier excitement shining in his smile. "She gave us permission to talk to the students a little about Chief Advisor Mustang's trial so that we can offer our own viewpoints and experiences for them to write about for the newspaper. We want to strengthen MAP's influence."

"Oh," Audrey raised an eyebrow, pausing to deliberate for a moment. "Why should you have influence? Do you actually _know_ the Chief Advisor?"

"Well, I guess we haven't properly introduced ourselves," Al admitted, smirking at Ed.

Taking the cue, Ed held out his hand, which Audrey took to shake. "I'm Edward Elric, the former Fullmetal Alchemist."

Eyes widening and cheeks flushing, Audrey tried to speak but was interrupted and dazedly distracted by Al, who took her hand next. "And I'm Alphonse Elric, his younger brother."

"Y.... _You _guys are the famous Elric brothers?" she said in a hush and reverent but disbelieving tone. Then she clapped her hands together enthusiastically. Alphonse's modest smile contrasted with Ed's proud grin. "_Oh my gosh_! Would you let me interview you?"

Ed furrowed his brows at her. "Are you part of MAP?"

"Well.... No," Audrey conceded. "I'm writing an article that's supposed to compare and contrast MAP and MCA. Find all the real facts and put them together, and...." With a sigh, she shrugged. "I guess I'm not really sure what I believe. I just want the truth, that's all."

A shrill _briiiing_ sounded throughout the halls. Ed and Al covered their ears instinctively, the former bearing his teeth irritably at the ceiling. Audrey merely stood patiently, heedless of the hordes of students that suddenly streamed out of every door in sight. The smell of young sweat, unwashed clothes, and noodle breath tickled their noses.

"Well, of _course_ we'd interview for you," Al said as loudly as he could, leaning slightly toward her in the hope that his voice carried over the din. "Anything to get the facts out."

"Wow! Really?" Audrey cried. At Al's earnest nod, she flung her arms around him and squealed. Laughing, Al returned the hug gently, patting her back and sending Ed a bemused look over her shoulder. Backing away, she continued. "Thank you so much! Can I interview you tomorrow, then? What about at that café where I met you guys? Maybe at ten?"

"In the morning?" Al clarified.

"Yes, of course," Audrey giggled, bouncing on her toes for a moment before leaping onto Edward, entrapping him in a fierce embrace. "Oh, thank you _so_ much! I can hardly wait!"

"Neither can we," Ed replied, his face very much in danger of turning permanently scarlet. He subtly pushed her away to arm's length and cast her a tilted smile. "But we should get to Ms. Gerry's classroom now, right? We've still got to talk to the students."

"Oh, right, yes!" Audrey gasped sharply before taking both brothers' hands and beginning to lead them toward Ruth's classroom near the end of the hall. "And I have to observe them. Oh, this is _so_ exciting! I got to meet the Elric brothers!"

Ed exchanged pleasantly surprised expressions with Al. "Well, thanks for agreeing to interview us."

"That's what I should be thanking _you_ for," Audrey offered half a smile to both of them from over her small shoulder, her angular features and ever-shifting eyes making her appear to be the prettiest and most intelligent_ imp_ the brothers had ever come across. Reaching the doors leading to Ruth Gerry's classroom, she released Ed and Al's hands, swung the door open, and held it politely so they could pass through. "I'm just looking for the _real _truth to write about. You shouldn't be thanking _me_ just yet."

* * *

**I adore Audrey. :3 .... Anybody else hate heels?**

**I also love the image of a dancing Alphonse. It just puts so much "YAY" into my heart. XD Please let him live, Arakawa! Please, please....  
**

**Eez bedtime for me. Good night!**

**Next chapter's title: Of Trading Goods And Anxieties  
**


	6. Of Trading Goods and Anxieties

**Chapter 6! We're a little over a quarter of the way through now, I think. I ended up combining what I had originally planned to be two chapters into one (and thus Chapter 6 was born!), so who knows how else I'll tweak things as time goes on?  
**

**Read the first chapter if you need a refresher on what to expect with this fic. And if you haven't yet checked out Fudfoodle's comic version of the story (or the rest of her artwork) on deviantART, then I **_**highly**_** recommend you do so soon! She's pretty bogged down with a lot of stuff lately, but she's entirely worth keeping an eye on. :3**

**We also disclaim ownership of any kind in regards to FMA. But it appears that FMA owns us.**

**Edit: Dang it, missed a page break.... -fixes-  
**

* * *

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Mustang, but aren't you about to executed?"

"You're wrong, Chancellor," Roy nodded with a smirk. "I've only been indicted."

"But stripped of your authority, nonetheless," Olivier pressed, steepling her fingers as she rested her elbows on her large oak desk. "What makes you think you can come here offering your so-called 'advice' as though nothing has happened?"

"Why don't you ask those guards you're so proud of? They let me in without any kind of fuss at all," Roy replied, then tapped his chin with an expression of mock confusion as Wataru warily glanced back and forth between the advisor and the chancellor. "And why do you speak so condescendingly of my advising prowess when, as I recall, it was _you_ who practically shoved the job down my throat, in your infinite mercy?"

Olivier's gaze flickered to Riza, who stood placidly behind her husband. "You're an exceptional and intelligent woman, Hawkeye. What did you ever see in him?"

Riza smiled modestly. "With all due respect, Chancellor Armstrong, it _is_ Mustang now, not Hawkeye."

"Right," Olivier said, nodding so that the strands of her sun-colored hair hid the slight upward curve of her lips. Then she straightened and fixed Roy with an intent stare. "Well, speaking of your upcoming trial, I'll offer _you_ some advice. I've had special operatives in the intelligence division perform background and character checks on each of the members of your jury. Nearly all of them check out except one—a man called Duane Atman. He's ranked lowly in the military, but most of his personal information that we should have in our files has been erased or altered. It wouldn't be noticeable if it weren't for the fact that Sciezska remembers them differently. However, with only her word and no hard evidence of who might have changed them or why, there's no way the Great Court will grant a request I might make to have Atman removed. So," she said firmly, glancing back and forth between the two Mustangs, "keep on your toes, and be extremely cautious of your actions over the next few weeks. Someone might be deliberately trying to make this trial unfair."

"I see," Roy said grimly. "Thank you. What does Sciezska remember about Atman's files?"

"She says he was a close subordinate—a colonel, actually—of one of the generals seeking immortality from Father," Olivier explained. "Now his files appear to include nothing of the sort. They say he's merely been a private for three years."

"So it's possible that he knew of Father's plan and now wants revenge," Riza concluded.

"It's possible," Olivier agreed. "And if he doesn't succeed, there's plenty of reason to assume someone else may be on hand to finish the job. Watch your back, Mustang."

"Well, Riza's already pretty good at that," Roy smiled. Then he nodded again toward Olivier. "Thanks again."

Rather than acknowledging his gratitude, however, Olivier leaned back in her chair with a small sigh. "Is idle chit-chat all you came here for, Chief Advisor?"

"Actually, no," Roy said, leaning forward. "Are you really going to listen to Paul Taylor and give Xing a pound of salt for every five pounds of silk they send us?"

"Taylor is the secretary of agriculture," Olivier replied. "He seems quite sure that a pound of salt is all we are able to afford. Salt production has been decreasing lately."

"As has employment," Roy said, gesturing emphatically as he continued. "Changing Amestris from a military regime to a democracy has left a lot of people not knowing what to do anymore. Virtually all of the governing positions that used to go to military personnel have been made obsolete in favor of private ownership, which in turn dissolves the offices of those military personnel, which in turn affects a lot of small businesses that relied on the military's continuous patronage. A lot of people are left without jobs or less income than usual. Salt production was among those fields affected. It could keep soldiers hydrated wherever water was scarce and was also easier kept and transported, but since we're no longer at war with anyone, the demand for salt has reduced significantly. The reason Xing wants more salt is because the Great Desert is spreading, and it's taking some of their water sources with it. But sooner or later, when they're more comfortable in their new situation, they're going to realize that getting only a pound of something they deem necessary is a rip-off for having to give us _five_ pounds of something that's only a luxury. You'll mess up relations with them and reduce imports of silk, which would put _more_ people out of jobs. It's not like the salt industry is suffering because there's not enough salt to go around. We get it from our lakes. The supply of salt is endless. What we need is more people producing, mining, and purifying it. And packaging it, and labeling it, and then transferring it. You can create _plenty _more jobs people would appreciate, while keeping positive trade relations with Xing, improving the silk business, which will in turn improve every other business that likes to use silk, and keep Amestris more than comfortable with how much salt makes it to every table in the morning." He paused. "While you're at it, you might try improving our relations with Drachma from tentative to positive by working with them to enhance salt production in the northern ocean. I'm sure they could use the economic boost, too. I don't think they ever fully recovered from being so thoroughly beaten by us seven years ago. They really invested a lot into that war, you know."

A few moments of silence passed as Olivier rubbed her chin contemplatively. Then, with an air of decisiveness, she tapped her index and middle fingers twice on her desk. "You really thought this one out, Mustang."

Roy spread his hands. "If anything happens to me because of this trial, Chancellor, I want to make sure the country is left in the best state I could help it get to."

"The country will do well," Olivier said. "Rest assured of that. Anything else?"

As Riza gently lay a hand on his shoulder, Roy shook his head. "No, I guess that's it."

"Then you will leave when I tell you to this time?" Olivier drawled with a tone like that of a deceptively idle snake.

"I don't understand why you would so groundlessly imply insolence on my part, Chancellor," Roy smirked as he stood. With a bow, he adjusted his hold on Wataru's leash to get a firmer grip, set his walking stick before him, and led Riza to the door of the Chancellor's office. Once exiting it, they were immediately flanked again by Roy's attentive escort.

In the car, neither of them said a word. But their constant hold on each other's hands was enough for a thousand of them.

* * *

"A thousand biscuits, Gracia?" Riza laughed.

"I didn't count, of course," Gracia grinned back as she slipped an oven mitten over her hand. "But I knew you would say yes, and of course, I had to accommodate your kind escort."

"Much obliged, Mrs. Hughes," one of the soldiers nodded genially at her as he and his fellows hungrily surveyed the feast she had laid out all across her dining room table.

"You already do so much for us, Gracia," Roy said with a smile and sigh. "Dinner is too much."

"Oh, give him a good slap for me, would you, Riza?" Gracia quipped amiably, carefully setting her fresh mixed berry pie on the top of the stove.

Riza obeyed, though it was not quite a slap, nor was it particularly unpleasant. Roy had to bite back a laugh as he rubbed the recently violated spot on his rear end and thanked whatever heavens might exist that the soldiers were not currently paying as close attention to him and his wife as usual.

"Mama! Daddy!" They turned toward Zach as he leapt at them, trying with all his might to stretch his arms enough to include both their waists in his hug. Jadon followed, grinning as he squished Zach against their parents' legs so that he could join in the embrace. When both boys had backed away, Zach bounced excitedly. "Elysia showed me how to draw a cat!"

"Me, too!" Jadon put in.

"Did she now?" Roy said, hoping his sons would not notice how he let his shoulders drop a little with the pang of knowing he could not see. "Why don't you bring your pictures to show to Mom?"

"Yeah!" Zach exclaimed as he scampered out of the room. He returned a moment later with several sheets of paper in his hand, crinkling and waving them in his fist. "Look, Mama, look! These are mine, and these are Jadon's."

Elysia wandered into the room as Riza lowered to her knees and studied the drawings, complimenting each boy on the wonderful likenesses they had created of not only cats, but cars and post lamps and clouds and trees and streetlights and, she thought, wildberries, though she was speedily corrected, as they were actually embarrassed people with green hair because the orange and brown crayons had rolled irretrievably under the couch. Roy listened respectfully to his family's discussions of the art, smiling at Elysia's encouraging and enthusiastic interjections, his heart plopping steadily closer and closer to his stomach with each word. He had long grown accustomed to having to rely on Riza's descriptions of their boys' appearances and antics, cherishing their skin and hair and the shapes of their faces with as heightened an awareness as he could muster in an attempt to make up for being unable to see their smiles or tears or wide, gleaming eyes. How different might death be?

He found himself crumpling slowly to his knees and reaching out to find both his sons' cheeks. Once he did, he traced them, running his thumbs along the wrinkles of their smiles, then over their eyelids.

"We made pictures of you and mama, too, Daddy," Jadon said.

"And don't worry, I made you look _very_ handsome," Zach added, nodding grandly against his father's hand.

With a husky chuckle, Roy pulled them both to him and pressed them against his shoulders. "I'm very proud of you both." He tried to say something else, something about what good boys they were and what great men they should grow up to be, something about how to treat girls and the magic of drowning in the pools of their eyes—_eyes that they may not always be able to see_—and the importance of good food and traveling and freedom and passion and _life_, but all he choked out was, "_So_ proud." And then he hoped that one day they would be able to hear everything in his pause.

When Gracia finally interrupted to tell the children to go wash their hands, Riza rose alongside her husband and laid a hand on his shoulder. After glancing inconspicuously toward the escort to assure herself that they were too busy admiring Gracia's cooking to overhear, she murmured, "Are you all right?"

Roy took in a few slow, silent breaths. "What are we going to do about them, Riza?"

For a while, his wife did not reply. Finally, she said quietly, "Let's meet with your lawyer tomorrow to discuss it." At the taut lines that etched themselves by his nose and mouth, Riza rose on her toes and pressed her cheeks against his, not bothering to check on whether the escort was watching this time. Tears did not fall, but Roy felt something distinctly wet at the corner of her eye. "They'll be all right."

* * *

"All _right_!" Ed exclaimed, waving a newspaper as he burst into the hotel room. "Look at this, Al! The students' articles have already appeared in the Central Daily!"

"Really?" Al grabbed the paper from Ed's hand and quickly perused it.

"Read it out loud, Al," Winry said from across the room as she continued to help Emily put on her shoes.

Al obliged. " 'In an interview with the former Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward Elric, and his younger brother, Alphonse, who are well-known and respected for their heroism as alchemists who defended and embodied the phrase 'for the people,' as well as their roles in the thwarting of the homunculi's conspiracy seven years ago, have offered their testimonies in favor of the Chief Advisor's pardon. 'I worked as a subordinate of Roy Mustang for the entirety of my service in the military,' Edward Elric said. 'I knew of his and his wife's parts in the Ishbal War, but I also knew of Roy's plans to oust the Fuhrer and establish a government based on geometrical progression and democracy. Throughout that time, I got to know him and Riza Mustang very well, and I can personally assure anyone who asks that their remorse was genuine and intentions pure. He was also the man who recruited me to the military to help me search for something important to my brother and me and placed me in his staff to ensure he could increase my chances of success. No one as heartless as people keep making him out to be risks his career on a punk kid like that.' Alphonse supported everything his brother said, adding, 'Having also personally fought by Mustang's side on the Promised Day, we saw firsthand the wounds he had to overcome and walk away with in order to achieve his objective. If he had been a lesser man, he would have given up on his goal a long time before.'"

"There are three more articles like it, full of our testimonies, and people are eating it up," Ed said, crossing his arms and smiling smugly. "Words of pure gold, I tell you."

"I commend you, Ed, for not mentioning any of the more colorful adjectives you've been known to use when describing Mr. Mustang," Winry remarked wryly.

Ed frowned at her. "Not that they aren't still accurate, but I can set my reservations aside for a greater cause."

Winry smiled at him, then looked back at Al. "What else is there?"

"Well," Al's expression was changing to a slight scowl. "There are also a bunch of letters from people responding to whoever wrote that letter Ed and I read a couple days ago," he said. "These are criticizing Mustang's support."

"What do they say?" Ed asked sharply, moving to peer over Al's shoulder.

" 'The anonymous writer for the Central Academy Chapter of MAP assumes that parallels can be made between the Chief Advisor and the common citizen. What the writer forgets is that only so many of those parallels can be validated. During the Ishbal War, the common citizen was constantly barraged with military propaganda assuring Amestris's righteous judgment on Ishbal and the barbaric actions of the Ishbalans against an army that had to do everything it could to defend itself. Amestris was made out to be a would-be victim of religious terror that it fortunately had the technology and morale to fight against. This was all that the common citizen knew of the Ishbal War. They could not rise and move to the frontlines of the battles to see for themselves, for they were too busy trying to sustain an economy and homes for the soldiers to return to; they had their own duties to fulfill and had to entrust the justice of the army's actions to itself. Roy Mustang is known to be one of the key and forefront alchemists in the battles of the Ishbal War. He has no legitimate way of claiming ignorance to the ruthless genocide he aided. We, the people of Amestris, trusted him to represent us and our ideals in those days. We trusted him to act in the name of justice. He failed us. Even if it were not for the recent emergence of more reasons to remain skeptical of his character and intentions for Amestris, Roy Mustang's actions cannot continue to go unpunished. Whether he has truly changed or not, there is a debt that has yet to be paid, and justice does not waive her fees. If we are to be the Amestris we need to be, the one we envision that does not condone lies and cowardice, then we are to answer justice's cries for fulfillment, no matter the price. The Ishbalans demand blood compensation—and so do the grossly deceived citizens of our country.'"

Winry's face was pale, besides the flush across her nose and cheeks. She pursed her lips as she twisted Emily's left shoe this way and that, trying to force the girl's foot into it. "How could they say things like that? As if the present doesn't matter at all? As if he hasn't already tried to do that himself?"

"Asshole," Ed muttered under his breath.

"Here's another one," Al went on. " 'Roy Mustang may have been instrumental in abolishing the oppressive and cruel military regime that defined Amestris's way of life for centuries, but he has yet to unveil any proof of his sincerity. His statements as to his feelings about the Ishbal War are few and far between, and even when he _has_ expressed some kind of lament over his actions, the actions themselves contradict his words. There have been countless soldiers who have spoken of their gratitude for his thorough work destroying town after town after town. A man who is thinking of the rights of other human beings does not so easily succumb to the will of his superiors and set lives aflame with such a stoic face and ready finger. There's no reason not to believe that Mustang's determination to rise to power could have been nothing more than the dream of a man who had wielded and unleashed nearly limitless and unimaginable power and had come to crave more. If he was not insane before the war, then he had surely become a psychopath by the end of it. No man survives such a war with the distinction he had garnered without being darkly affected. Even now, he continues to exercise influence over Amestris's affairs by serving as Chief Advisor to Chancellor Armstrong. Who can say what kind of tripe he is feeding her? Amestris is yet an infant as it tries to grow into the dress of democracy; it cannot afford to be led by a man it cannot trust. There are other men and women with his capabilities, knowledge, and intellect, and thrice as spotless a past. Allow them to take their place, and let Mustang take his—either somewhere far away, or with a noose around his neck and his feet above the ground.'"

With that, Edward growled, clapped his hands, snatched at the newspaper, and glared fiercely as it exploded into confetti. Al allowed some of it to flutter on the top of his head as he gazed darkly at the floor, while Winry leaned back from where she was still sitting, shaking her head. Emily, her shoes successfully on her feet, toddled toward Ed and hugged his leg. "It's okay, Daddy."

Ed glanced down at the top of her head, strands of hair glinting in the morning sunlight, her little arms barely making it around his calf. He sighed and lowered to his knees to return her embrace. "Thanks, Emily. Sorry. Just got a bit upset."

"Mr. Mustang is in trouble, right?" Emily asked, looking solemnly into her father's eyes.

"Yep," Ed nodded. "And we're trying very hard to get him out of it."

Emily nodded. "I think that's very nice of you." Then she reached up to brush the remains of the newspaper off Al's head.

It was then that a knock sounded at the door. Winry stood to answer it and revealed Audrey on the other side, dressed comfortably in a loose skirt and blouse and dress shoes that were admittedly nice but also flat and thus would definitely not get stuck in cracks in the sidewalk.

"Hi!" she greeted. "I just came by because I had some more questions...." She trailed off as she watched Emily pull the last bits of newspaper out of Al's hair. "I see you've read today's paper."

Ed rose, gathering Emily into his arms and then balancing her on his hip. "Hey, Audrey." He nodded at Winry, who nodded back in understanding and gestured welcomingly at the reporter, encouraging her to cross the threshold into their room. Ed slipped an arm around Winry's waist. "This is my wife Winry and daughter Emily. Winry, Emily, this is Audrey. She's the reporter for Central Daily who interviewed Al and me yesterday."

"Nice to meet you," Audrey smiled politely as she shook Winry's hand, giggling when Emily held out her hand expectantly as well. She gestured apologetically toward Al as he stood and joined them, bits of paper falling from his shoulders and pants. "I figured you guys wouldn't be too happy about the letters to the editor today."

"When are you going to publish your article about what Ed and I said?" Al inquired.

"Well, the article's not _just_ about what you have to say," Audrey explained, wringing her hands. "It's supposed to present a purely objective opinion about the Chief Advisor and the trial. Something that presents both points of view. And I...." She blushed a little, but her mouth firmed. "I don't feel as though I've done a thorough enough investigation of Mustang and his situation to write a good article for him. I mean, you guys have helped a _lot_, but you're pretty...." Glancing again at a shred of newspaper that had gone unnoticed on Al's forearm, she raised an eyebrow and smiled at the Elrics. "Well, you _are_ pretty biased."

"It's not bias if we _know_ what we're talking about," Ed snorted, moving to set Emily on one of the two beds so that he could freely take a bite out of a loaf of bread. "Everyone who knows Mustang knows he doesn't deserve this. All the people who criticize him have probably never even seen him outside of a newspaper article about Ishbal or the Promised Day. They just don't know what to think."

"And isn't that understandable?" Audrey said. "He hasn't really made much personal contact with the public. Even if he does it now, it's a little too late. It'll just look like he's trying to save himself now."

"Respectfully, Miss Cyrus, we know Mr. Mustang too well to let these misunderstandings about his character continue to circulate, and we will do everything we can to stop them," Winry said, mouth firm. Then she turned toward her husband. "Ed, why don't you go see Ms. Gerry again?" she suggested as she offered Audrey a doughnut. "Maybe you can brainstorm a new idea together. There must be something better than newspaper articles."

"Yeah," Ed cocked his head and chewed thoughtfully. Then he gestured toward his brother. "Al, you about ready to go? Let's go visit Ruth Gerry." At Al's nod, he looked toward Winry. "You coming?"

"I promised Mrs. Hughes I'd help her keep an eye on all the kids today," she answered, shrugging but smiling warmly at him. "Besides, Emily was really looking forward to playing with Elysia and the boys. Thanks, though."

"Right, right," Ed said, gulping down the last of his bread as he grabbed his coat. After delivering a quick kiss to his wife's lips, he swung the door open and hurried out. "Al and I will meet you there at five o'clock so we can go get dinner. Come on, Al!"

"Okay!" Winry called after him as Emily ran over to wave while clutching her mother's leg.

"Coming, Brother," Al shouted, digging through his suitcase for his coat.

"Wait!" Audrey stepped out into the hallway and exasperatedly looked back and forth between Ed's retreating back and Al's smirking face. "I-I wanted to ask you more questions—"

Al, having finally found and donned his coat and, bent to peck Emily's cheek and hugged Winry. "See you later!" he said, then began leading Audrey away by the elbow. "Just come with us. You can ask us questions along the way."

* * *

"That's quite the question," Ruth ran her index finger along her lower lip, coffee mug clutched with almost heedless lopsidedness in her other hand. "But you're right. We do need to expand the influence of MAP."

Audrey swiveled her head around, trying to absorb the entire scene of the famous Elric brothers deliberating with the head of the Movement for Amnesty and Peace. Edward was pacing restlessly back and forth while Alphonse tried to appear more relaxed in a chair, though the ankle and calf he had propped on top of his other thigh kept twitching and he could not seem to stop scratching at the chin hairs he had missed while shaving. Ruth Gerry had ceased stroking her lip and now stood with her free hand holding up her considerable weight against the small sofa in her office. Audrey slowly reached for the small notebook she kept in her purse, poising her pen.

"There are so many media outlets these days," Al mused, glaring slightly at the space in front of him. "We've got radio, a little television, magazines...." He paused to consider. "Radio and television would be difficult. They've got pretty strict programs, and we couldn't count on every radio station agreeing to let us speak. And we have no way of getting onto radio waves by ourselves."

"Television presents a similar problem," Ed agreed with an irritated sigh, halting his pacing to lean against the shelves of books. "As for magazines, we may be able to make them ourselves, but we have no way of printing mass amounts of them to distribute. We would also need money for that, and whatever Winry says, we don't have enough," he finished with a small snort.

"Magazines are less likely to attract attention anyway," Ruth remarked. "After all, we'd have to count on people actually _taking_ them. We'd have a better chance of making a statement if we _force_ people into listening to us."

Al furrowed his brows with a sardonic smile. "There's got to be something illegal about that."

But Ruth seemed to see her ideas floating in her coffee mug, judging by the way she scrutinized its contents. "Do you know of anyone with the technology to intercept radio waves?"

At that suggestion, Edward and Alphonse glanced at each other. Then Ed gently kicked himself away from the bookshelf just as Al straightened and set the foot he had kept up back on the floor. They grinned. Audrey's eyes widened with desperate curiosity, but she kept silent, trying to write without drawing attention to herself, and without looking at her paper. As a result, her scrawling was reminiscent of the remnants of ancient three-year-olds' drawings on the walls of Xerxes' ruins.

"Encouraging," Ruth smirked slyly as she watched the two young men finish their apparently telepathic conversation. "And now that I think of it, I think I know just the person who could help us make magazines as well."

"Really?" Ed grinned wider.

Ruth raised her eyebrows knowingly at him. Then she turned to Audrey as another burst of scribbling broke through the excited silence that followed. "Would you like to help, too, Miss Cyrus?"

Audrey's eyes went wide again. "Oh, n-no, I can't get the C-Central Daily to—"

"Oh, I know," Ruth waved her hand dismissively. "That's not what I mean. I just think you might like to see this."

* * *

**To be honest, this one felt a bit hurried to me. I've been enduring a lot of unexpected hindrances for my writing time—and my sleeping time, which doesn't help matters when I **_**do**_** have time to write. So let me know if this one turned out badly. I felt more confident about the others. With the story in general, I'm trying to pull off a somewhat subtle third-person omniscience, and I _know_ I'm missing something. I can feel it in my boooones!  
**

**Also, economy is not my strongest point. I get its mechanics and everything, but since my political views are a bit…. complex, to say the least, I usually only take my study of economics so far. I'm better with the communications and policymaking aspects of politics, which admittedly went into Roy's assessment of what to do, but of course, it was pretty basic stuff. –shrugs- I based the fictional trade agreement between Xing and Amestris mostly on what I remembered learning about trade agreements between Africa and Europe during the Middle Ages (salt for gold) from my seventh grade social studies class. XD And I did a wee bit more research on salt to make sure I had things accurate (really interesting, actually, but sadly, no room for all the interesting things about salt for this chapter), but again, not my area of expertise. So apologies to anyone who read Roy's spiel on how to improve Amestris's economy, trade agreements, and border relations and then went, "What in the **_**world**_** is she talking about?" XD I know very well that things aren't nearly as easy as Roy made it sound, but I figure the idea would be a good start.  
**

**But enough of my excuses. I'm out of buffer and increasingly short on time, so I have to get back to all the crap I have to do if next week's update is going to be both timely **_**and **_**of decent quality. ^___^;; I'm looking forward to the next few chapters, though! -rubs hands together- XD  
**

**Next chapter's title: Of the Power of Media.**


	7. Of the Power of Media

**Chapter 7! This one introduces an OC who sprung from the fathomless depths of my imagination back in October (I think). He was featured in my fic, "Lookin' At It This Way." It's a fic in which he develops photos in Central, and you read only his side of a conversation with Roy and Riza about photographs and the people in them (especially Edward). (Please note that I wrote that fic before it was known that Roy would go blind.) He didn't have a name then, but Fudfoodle came up with the perfect one very quickly. :D Anyway, I love that OC, and so does Fudfoodle, so we were excited at a chance to bring him into this story. XD**

**Review Chapter 1 to refresh yourself on what to expect. As I said in the last chapter, we're a little over a quarter of the way through now. :D Yay! Things will start getting juicy soon. Also, if you haven't checked out Fudfoodle's artwork on deviantART yet, I sincerely hope you do.**

**By the way, thanks for all the reviews! I can't remember anymore which ones I've responded to and which ones I haven't (the days, the weeks, they are blurring togetherrrrr!), but I'll try to figure it out, as I like to respond to each review individually. ^___^ They are greatly appreciated! :D I love knowing what people are thinking, be it good or bad.**

**Of course, we don't own FMA, but it eats our souls all the same. Speaking of which, I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm kind of in a state of denial about Chapter 104. I hope Arakawa fixes it; I'm not sure she'd want to responsible for me dying by heart attack. :| …. Even though the whole thing did**** _look_ pretty awesome. XD AHEM!! To the story.**

* * *

"Well, if it ain' th'Fullmetal Alchemist, visitin' ol' Central from Raisin Pool! Sure shot up, didn' yeh?"

"Actually, it's just Ed these days," Edward smirked at the aged photo developer whose back was evidently not quite as strong as it was ten years ago, given the way he hunched. "And it's pronounced 'Resembool.' How are you, Frank? It's been a while."

"Oh, Ah'm finer'n frog hair split nine ways, thanks for askin'," Frank drawled as he shuffled away from the doorway to allow Ed, Al, Audrey, and Ruth to enter the photography shop. "What about yeh? Ever hear from that guy'n armor anymore?"

"Sometimes," Ed replied as he and Al exchanged grins. Audrey glanced back and forth between them, leaning in their direction to imply her curiosity, but they paid her no heed.

Frank bobbed his head genially and took his place behind the counter with the cash register. "Well, what can Ah do for yeh today? Been a while since yeh had any pitchers fer me to develop."

"I'm afraid it will be a little longer still, Mr. Gareth," Ruth said to him as she propped her pudgy elbow on the counter. "We actually have a proposition you might be interested in."

Eyebrows twitching with the effort of rising, Frank blinked in answer. "Ah'm all ears, Ms. Gerry."

"You're an outspoken supporter for Chief Advisor Mustang, correct?" Ruth queried, shrewdly scrutinizing the old man.

"That I am," Frank said fervently. "Recently became an official member o' MAP. It ain' right what they're doin' t'him."

"We agree about that," Ruth continued. "And that's why we're doing everything we can to raise awareness of the truth and garner support for him. It's possible that public opinion will sway the jury's verdict." At this, she leaned forward and winked. "You still got that old letterpress?"

Ed and Al's eyes widened in unison, but it was Ed who voiced their question. "You had a letterpress?"

"Have, actually." The shadows in the creases of Frank's wrinkles were deep, suggesting that he had smiled in such a manner many times throughout his life. "Late wife loved t' write an' ran a magazine fer stories when she was alive. Ah made pitchers fer it." Returning his focus to Ruth, he leaned forward against the counter, shaking slightly as his brittle bones struggled to hold up his weight. "What did yeh have in mind fer it, eh?"

"We want to start publishing an independent magazine for MAP," Ruth explained briskly as she pushed away from the counter to gesture emphatically with both hands. "Something we don't have to worry the newspapers will reject or censor. We can say anything we want and make sure the people know what we think about the trial."

Frank firmed his mouth, licking his lips for a moment. Then he turned slowly and paused, waiting for Ed, Al, and Ruth to step forward before he continued leading them toward a door in a far corner of the lobby. "She would've loved t'see th'ol' press be put t'such good use now."

"Just like that?" Al exclaimed. "You'll make dozens of magazines?"

"Not at all, my boy," Frank replied with a husky chuckle. "Ah intend to make hundreds of 'em."

"How will you do that?" Audrey breathed, absentmindedly digging in her bag for her notebook and pen. "Do you have a lot of savings?"

Frank waved a gnarled hand dismissively. "Money ain' ever a problem fer me. Never needed much. Besides"—a youthful spirit shone through grin—"Ah got plenny o' silver."

At the young adults' bewildered expressions, Ruth smirked. "Silver is used for protecting film before it's processed," she said. "There's a very thin layer of it that keeps any possible sparks caused from the speed of the film inside the camera from damaging the film itself. In the bleaching process of development, the silver is removed."

"Not like runnin' a mine er anythin'," Frank grunted as he fiddled with a set of keys, trying to find the one to open the corner door. "But it's somethin'. Prob'ly enough fer our purposes. Jus' gotta give me a few days t'sell some more."

"I knew I could count on you, Mr. Gareth," Ruth beamed.

With a throaty and pleased chuckle, Frank finally stuck the correct key inside the lock and pushed the door open. He led them into a wide, dusty room sheltering a large machine with a large wheel set beneath two ledges jutting out from a jumble of cranks and levers and bulging letters. "This here's the letterpress," he said, indicating it with a spread palm and warm glance as though he were introducing houseguests to a beloved resident.

Ruth nodded at it. "Good. Small and private." Then she spotted a long table on which flatly laid crisscrossing wires fitted between differently sized wooden frames were scattered haphazardly across the surface. She lengthened her stride, hurrying to the table to study the frames, her lipsticked mouth round in awe. "You can do screen printing, too," she said. Then, clapping her hands together once, she whirled around, surprisingly light on her feet. She smiled with an amused smugness toward Audrey. "You see, my dear, this is how the press _should_ be—simple and honest."

Audrey blinked, her face flushing a little as she nodded hesitantly. "W-Well, I—"

"Ah haven't used this ol' thing in _years_," Frank commented wistfully as he passed a hand over the letterpress. "Ah'm not even sure it still _works_." He brushed off a layer of grime and frowned at all the nuts and bolts. "May be a few days before we can print anythin'. Gotta get 'er looked at."

"I think we've got just the person for that," Ed said, suddenly rolling his shoulders back as he smiled proudly at something he saw beyond the machine while Al nodded knowingly.

"Do yeh, now?" Frank said, eyeing the boys with a smirk. "Edward, did yeh ever get with that mechanic girl o' yehrs?"

"H-Huh?" Ed's eyes widened as he took a frantically shocked step backwards, his cheeks suddenly aflame with his blood. "H-How did you—"

The aged photo developer laughed heartily. "Ah'm not _that_ old, boy. Anyway"—he continued as he clapped Ed's shoulder—"good fer yeh. She's a real pretty one. Real nice, too."

Rubbing the back of his head, Ed gave a grunt of concession. Al playfully elbowed his brother in the ribs, which earned him a heatless glare, which only made the younger alchemist laugh. Audrey clasped her hands in front of her and watched, smiling with a wondering warmth.

"Only one thing left to do," Ruth said as she contemplatively adjusted the pearls around her plump neck. She raised an eyebrow the Elric brothers as Audrey glanced back and forth between them. "It's your boys' turn."

* * *

"It's my turn to pick the music," one of the soldiers muttered, reaching forward to change the station on the radio in the living room of the Mustang home.

"You idiot, it's Raph's turn," one of the other soldiers said as he slapped away the hand of the first.

Roy suppressed a sigh, struggling to block out the sounds of his escort squabbling a few feet away. The past few days had seen a marked change in their attitude toward him—that is, they did not feel the need to crowd him every moment since they had come to realize he would not actually try to flee—and he could not be more grateful about it, but it did not change the fact that they were still _there_. He reached for Riza's hand in the cushioned chair next to him, searching for the auras of his boys on the floor as they quietly played with toy vehicles, laughing as they imagined putting the drivers into horrific situations that often involved pushing the cars across the arms of the sofa and then diving and crashing in the ravine of carpet below. Riza returned the squeeze of his fingers, and he barely heard the squeak of the wood in the chair as she leaned her head back, waiting for him to speak.

"Do you think we made the right decision?" he asked her, though his lips barely moved.

His wife stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. "Yes," she answered, quietly but firmly. After a moment, he heard her turn a page in the book she held in her lap. "The Elrics are probably the best suited to caring for them. Gracia struggles enough as a single mother of one young girl, and anyway, Elysia is half grown up." Her voice suddenly became lower, and he detected a hint of brokenness that she easily masked by clearing her throat. "If anything happens to us, it would be better to give the boys to someone with children around their own age, and to let Gracia just worry about her one."

"She'll be offended you think so little of her capabilities," Roy closed his eyes, just because they felt heavy, and smirked wryly.

"She will, but it's in her best interests, and the boys'," Riza replied easily. She lifted his hand to plant a small kiss on his knuckles. "Everyone will be all right."

"You've been saying that a lot recently," Roy said, swallowing down a lump in his throat. "Do you think you and I will be all right?"

There was a pause. The sound of static electricity filled it. Then a voice—tenor, clear, and familiar.

"Testing, one, two, three...."

Roy blinked and straightened, feeling Riza do the same.

"What's happening?" one of the soldiers inquired of no one in particular, staring in consternation at the radio speakers.

"Did somebody change the station again?" asked another as he glanced up from the book he had taken from the bookshelf a couple of hours before.

"Wasn't me," mumbled the soldier who had wished to select the music out of turn just minutes earlier.

Then came the voice again.

"Testing, one, two, three...."

Despite being unable to see her, Roy jerked his head in Riza's direction, and she acknowledged his question with a touch on his forearm. They leaned forward, waiting intently. Jadon and Zach curiously turned their gaze back and forth between the radio and their parents.

"What is it, Mama?" Zach asked Riza, who was nearest him, as he pulled on her pant leg.

"Hush, please," Riza murmured.

"When is the music coming back on?" another soldier sighed irritably.

And the voice.

"Testing, one, two—"

"I think we got it, Fuery."

At the second drawling baritone voice and the sound of the name they had been waiting to hear, Roy and Riza bolted up from their chairs, continuing to grasp tightly to each other's hands as they stared in the direction of the radio, tensed. The members of the escort stared around at each other incredulously, occasionally mouthing questions that could only be answered with shrugs.

"I'm just making sure—"

"We got it, Fuery. We can't keep this up for long, you know that. Say it now."

"What? But you told me _you'd_ say it!"

"When did I say that?"

"Just a couple of minutes ago!"

"I think you're just imagining things."

"Guys, seriously, we don't have time for this. Here, I'll say it."

"Breda, don't talk with your mouth full. Especially not on the radio."

"Well, if nobody else is going to do it—"

"Here, Falman, you do it."

"N-No, I'm no good with public speaking—"

"But you probably remember the speech word for word."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I—"

"Oh, let me do it! You pansies."

That last voice was mezzi-soprano with an edge of steel as tough as the real steel with which Roy and Riza knew its owner worked. Jadon and Zach grinned and pointed toward the speakers.

"Isn't that Mrs. Elric?" Jadon exclaimed.

"Shh," Riza motioned toward him, brows furrowing in concentration.

Winry's voice resounded in the room. "People of Central, we apologize for the interruption, but we have an important announcement to make. Don't bother changing the station, because we currently have all radio waves under our control. As you all know, tomorrow morning will be the first session of Chief Advisor Roy Mustang's trial, which will decide his fate regarding his role in the Ishbal War. We, Roy Mustang's supporters and former team members who aided in the coup d'état seven years ago—"

"Winry, you weren't there." That one was Ed.

There was a muffled clang and yelp before Winry continued.

"We know that there has been a great deal of civil unrest and suspicion surrounding his moral character and suitability as a leader of this country. As loyal friends, followers, and confidantes of his, we can give firsthand accounts as testimonies to his honesty, courage, and capabilities. Tomorrow evening, beginning at six o'clock, we will conduct an official meeting hosted by the Movement for Amnesty and Peace in the auditorium at Central Academy. There, we will open the floor for discussion and answer any and all questions pertaining to Roy Mustang's character and intentions. This is your chance to find out everything you want to know about him so that you can make an informed decision as to whether or not you support his pardon. Again, tomorrow evening, six o'clock, auditorium at Central Academy. All are welcome! Bring your friends!"

There was some shuffling around, a few metallic bumps, the distant sound of Winry and Ed exchanging quiet but heated words as Al tried to politely interject and Emily asked whether she could tell them about the kitten she and Uncle Al had fed earlier that day, Breda mumbling something around whatever was in his mouth, Havoc laughing, Falman sighing, and then there was Fuery again.

"We'll now return you to your scheduled music program. Thank you for your time and patience."

After a moment, the smooth tone of a popular singer abruptly burst forth from the speakers mid-vibrato. The escort exchanged puzzled and slightly grim glances with each other but said nothing. Roy and Riza sank back into their chairs, breaths deep and slow, while Jadon and Zach pressed on their knees as they hopped around, proclaiming their excitement that Roy had been mentioned on the radio so that _everyone_ could hear.

"Wasn't that nice of them, Daddy?" Jadon enthused.

Roy had barely opened his mouth in a half-brained attempt to formulate a reply when a rapping at the door snapped him back into focus. He moved to rise, then settled back again, fighting a growl as he said impatiently to his escort, "Will one of you get that, please?"

Two of the soldiers wordlessly rose and ambled toward the front door, merely one room away. After only a moment, Ed, Al, Winry, and Emily entered. Emily immediately hurried toward Jadon and Zach, wasting no time in asking which tiny car she was allowed to push around, while the Elric adults took their seats in the sofa across from the chairs where Roy and Riza rested. Edward sported an immensely self-satisfied grin that Roy did not need to have his eyesight to know was there.

"You heard it, right?" Ed finally asked.

"I heard some kind of nonsense about a MAP meeting tomorrow," Roy answered, one eyebrow raised.

"Oh, that?" Ed scoffed lightly. "That was nothing. I was referring to my amazing singing voice that came right after it."

"Must've missed that part," Roy smirked, shaking his head. He felt a tremor run through Riza's hand and frowned, pulling on it inquiringly.

At that, Riza took in a sharp breath, and her voice was heavy with restraint. "You are being so kind to us. Anytime we wonder whether we'll really be all right, you give us hope. We really do thank you."

It was a simple speech, but Roy smiled at the rare display of her vulnerable sincerity, as did the Elrics.

"You don't have to wonder whether you'll really be all right, Riza," Winry said, tone warm and soft. "There's plenty of hope to be found. You _will_ be all right."

Riza let out a long and shaky sigh. Roy tightened his grip around her fingers, though he was unable to suppress a smile.

"Nothing to be afraid of," Ed said with a combination of firmness and nonchalance unique to him. "We're getting everything figured out."

"You're safe in our hands," Al added, a note of cheeriness in his voice. "We promise."

* * *

The radio interception ended just as Audrey was washing her hands in her bathroom. She blinked blankly at the sink before glancing at her reflection to watch herself yank her hair out of its ponytail. She shook out the dark sepia locks, running her fingers through them in a halfhearted attempt to disentangle them, then chuckled lightly to herself as she tapped her heel on the floor, imagining herself in heels again. The voice of her favorite crooner wafted through the air around her, but the sound of a toothbrush being scrubbed against her teeth drowned out the best of the singer's deep vibrato strains. Not that this seemed to matter very much, really, because she quite unceremoniously switched the radio off as she left the bathroom to climb into her bed in the next room.

Before retreating into sleep, however, she grabbed the notepad on her nightstand and scribbled on the first available clean sheet of paper it held—

_MAP meeting six o'clock Central Academy auditorium_

_Find Mustang's team for further questions __ private interview?_

Nodding and yawning to herself, she set the notebook aside, turned off the lamp, and settled into her pillow. Her last thoughts before slipping away into unconsciousness were to wonder how often the means justified the ends.

* * *

**This one feels a bit short to me for some reason, but there was only so much left to put in before the trial.  
**

**....**** I also really seriously need to fix up my narratives some more. Crap. Whyyyy are there not more hours in a day?**

**On to random author's notes.**

**I once knew a man who, when asked how he was doing, would **_**always **_**respond, "Oh, I'm finer than frog hair split nine ways!" I don't know if he made it up or got it from somewhere else. He has since died, but the saying always stuck with me. :) And I've always thought it was a perfect greeting for Frank Gareth! :D**

**I learned about the silver in 35-millimeter film because of my job as a photo technician at a big retail chain. I think we probably make more money selling the silver that comes off the film than we do from actually selling photo products. XD I loved how when it came became clear that there needed to be a way to fund the MAP magazines, I was immediately able to think of Frank and what I knew about silver in film! Yay for life experience! **

**I also did a wee bit of research on printing presses and the like for the sake of this chapter. Sooo interesting. I'm such a nerd. :B (Hope I got it right. It was some pretty quick research.) I was having a hard time finding a decent visual reference for screen printing, so I improvised its description a bit. I should ask some of my traditional art friends about that. I've watched them do such fascinating things in their studios.**

**All righty…. I guess that's it. For now. Waaah, why is it 3:30 in the morning? –cries-**

**Next chapter's title: Of High Noon. (We get to start the trial! WHOOHOO!!)**


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